SELECTIONS 


THE     WRITINGS 


MRS.  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

THE  MOTHER  OF 

LUCRETIA  MARIA  AND  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

WITH  A  PREFACE, 
BY  MISS  C.  M.  SEDGWICK. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
LEA    &     BLANCHARD. 

1843. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843,  by 
LEA  &  BLANCHARD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


A/  3 
J  tf*r 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE     ...  -         v 

DEDICATION       -  vii 

INTRODUCTION         -  -       ix 

EVENTS  OF  A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814      -  17 

RUTH  -       79 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  -            99 

Thus  passeth  the  Glory  of  the  World  -       99 

To  my  Daughter  Margaret       -  100 

Easter  Hymn  -     101 

Paraphrase  from  Job,  chap.  17th  102 
"  I  ascend  unto  my  Father  and  your  Father,  my  God  and 

your  God"  -     103 

To  Mrs. .           105 

Lines  on  my  Daughter  Margaret  -                                      -     106 

The  Vanity  of  Worldly  Pleasure  107 

Paraphrase  from  19th  Job  -     108 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  L.  M.  D.  -           110 

Lines  on  Receiving  a  Bouquet  -                                       -     111 

Lines  to ...           jjg 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  55th  -     113 

Lines  to  Miss  B .            .           115 

To  Caroline  -            -     116 

To  my  Daughter  Margaret       -  -           H8 

A.  Tribute  to  Mrs. .     H8 

To  Mrs. .             .           120 

Parting  Address  to  a  Son  -     121 

To  my  Friend,  Mrs. -  122 

1 


X  CONTENTS. 

Lines  on  my  Daughter  Margaret's  Tenth  Birth-Day         -     123 

Impromptu        -                          -  124 

Lines  on  Leaving  Home    -  -     125 

To  my  Daughter,  Mrs.  A.  E.  T.  126 

The  Lament           -  -     127 

Christmas  Hymn  128 

FINGAL Book  1.                           -  -     131 

"             «    II.         -  153 

"             "  III.  -     171 

"             "   IV.         -  189 

"             "     V.  -     204 
"             "   VI.         .....           219 


PREFACE. 

IT  can  hardly  be  said  that  the  author  of  the  following 
pages  appears  for  the  first  time  before  the  public;  yet, 
with  the  diffidence  natural  to  a  recluse  and  delicate 
woman,  she  shrinks  from  appearing  alone,  and  wishes 
to  be  announced  by  one,  who  would  do  even  an  hum 
bler  office  for  her  with  respect  and  pleasure,  and  for 
whom  the  reading  world  has  lost  some  of  its  terrors 
by  familiarity. 

There  are  persons  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  who 
feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  mother  of  Lucretia  and 
Margaret  Davidson;  many  have  manifested  an  un 
usual  sympathy  in  her  joys  and  sorrows,  and  some 
have  expressed  a  curiosity  to  know  more  of  the  mind 
whose  holiest  and  brightest  emanations  were  infused 
into  those  rare  sisters,  who  seem  hardly  to  have 
touched  our  world  on  their  passage  to  Heaven.  But 
the  gratification  of  their  curiosity  is  not  the  motive  to 
the  publication  of  these  pages,  though  it  may  be  in 
cidental  to  it.  The  mother's  life  has  been  in  com 
panionship  with  her  children,  and  she  is  now  tempted 
from  her  seclusion  that  she  may  still  be  associated 
with  them, — go  forth  with  them  on  their  mental  pil 
grimage,  and  for  their  sakes,  it  may  be,  be  welcomed 
to  many  kindred  hearts. 

C.  M.  SEDGWICK. 


DEDICATION. 


TO 

MY  MUCH  RESPECTED  FRIEND,  MISS  CATHARINE  M.  SEDGWICK. 

DEAR  MADAM:  — 

As  a  testimony  of  my  grateful  remembrance  of 
the  friendship  with  which,  in  life,  you  honoured  my 
sainted  Margaret,  and  the  interest  you  have  ever 
manifested  in  the  "  Remains"  of  both  my  lamented 
daughters,  I  beg  leave  to  inscribe  to  you  this  hum 
ble  volume.  By  permitting  me  to  do  so,  dear  and 
honoured  Lady,  you  will  add  another  link  to  the 
chain  of  favours  which  your  kind  and  disinterested 
heart  has  awarded  to  your 

Very  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


INTRODUCTION. 

I  HAVE  been  induced  to  publish  the  following  ex 
tracts  to  gratify  the  wishes  of  dear  and  partial  friends, 
and,  I  will  frankly  confess,  a  secret  desire  of  my  own, 
until  of  late  scarcely  acknowledged  by  myself,  to  fol 
low  in  the  train  of  my  beloved  children,  and  maintain, 
while  I  live,  that  close  companionship  with  their  minds, 
which  has  hitherto  formed  the  chief  happiness  of  my 
life: — these  motives  impel  me  onward. 

The  story  of  the  Stanley  family  is  a  simple  narra 
tive  of  facts,  which  occurred  in  1814;  the  names  only 
are  fictitious.  Every  person  who  has  read  the  re 
mains  of  my  daughter  Margaret,  by  Irving,  will 
recognize  in  Mrs.  Stanley  the  original  of  Mrs.  Men- 
traville  in  the  unfinished  romance,  the  characters  of 
which  were  drawn  from  real  life,  although  the  tale  is 
a  fiction  interwoven  with  many  circumstances  which 
actually  took  place  at  different  periods  of  time.  Dear 
to  my  heart,  and  deeply  cherished  there,  is  the  remem 
brance  of  every  individual  connected  with  the  events 
I  am  about  to  relate.  The  detail  requires  more  firm 
ness  and  self-command  than  I  at  all  times  possess,  and 
calls  up  a  host  of  sweet  and  bitter  memories  which 
nearly  unfits  me  for  my  task.  Dear  and  beloved 
beings!  with  whom  my  very  heart  of  hearts  was  en 
twined;  they  have  long  since  burst  asunder  the  ties 
which  bound  them  to  life,  and  soared  to  join  that 
angelic  band,  in  that  wide  field  of  intellectual  im- 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

provement,  to  which  their  young  hearts,  while  still  on 
earth,  so  ardently  aspired. 

The  six  books  of  Fingal  are  the  fruits  of  an  odd 
whim  of  mine,  to  while  away  time,  when  languishing 
under  a  distressing  illness  in  1827 — which  confined 
me  to  the  sick  room  and  bed  for  more  than  eighteen 
months.  On  my  recovery  it  was  rescued  from  the 
flames  by  the  intercession  of  a  friend,  and  consigned 
to  my  common-place  book,  from  whence  it  is  now 
withdrawn  by  the  same  magic  influence,  to  make  its 
way  in  the  world  in  company  with  the  fugitive  poems, 
with  which  it  has  so  long  held  companionship.  It  is 
with  diffidence  I  venture  to  appear  before  the  public. 
I  do  not — 1  cannot  anticipate  the  same  warmth  of 
feeling — the  unqualified  approbation  with  which  the 
remains  of  my  lamented  daughters  were  welcomed. 
I  only  hope,  as  their  mother,  to  escape  the  severe 
ordeal  of  the  critic; — although  sanguine  in  this  hope, 
tremblingly  I  venture  forth. 

M.  M.  D. 


THE  EVENTS 


FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814 


CHAPTER    I. 

ABOUT  the  last  of  August,  1S14,  General  Brisbane, 
the  British  commander,  encamped  with  the  advance 
guard  of  the  enemy  on  the  north  side  of  the  great 
Chazy.  Sir  George  Provost  following  with  all  his 
combined  forces,  amounting  to  15,000  well  disciplined 
troops,  on  the  first  of  September  threw  himself  into 
the  little  village  of  Champlain.  Immediately  on  his 
arrival  there,  he  endeavoured  to  disaffect  the  minds  of 
the  inhabitants  towards  their  own  government,  and 
draw  them  over  to  the  enemy;  failing  in  this,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  impress  wagons  and  teams  in  the  vicinity, 
for  the  purpose  of  transporting  their  baggage  and 
military  stores.  From  these  movements,  General 
Macornb,  the  American  commander,  was  convinced 
that  an  attack  was  speedily  meditated  upon  Platts- 
burgh.  General  Macomb  had  just  returned  from  the 
lines,  where  he  had  commanded  a  fine  brigade  which 
was  broken  up  by  the  march  of  General  Izard,  to  the 
assistance  of  General  Brown  at  Sackett's  Harbor;  this 
movement  left  the  northern  frontier  comparatively 
defenceless;  at  least  weak-handed,  for  our  brave 
officers  and  men  were  resolved  neither  to  know 
weakness  or  danger  while  the  safety  of  that  pos^was 


18  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

at  hazard.  Four  companies  of  organized  troops  were 
all  that  remained  to  defend  the  post  of  Plattsburgh. 
The  garrison  was  chiefly  composed  of  recruits  and 
invalids;  every  thing  was  in  confusion  from  the 
sudden  march  of  General  Izard.  Our  brave  com 
mander  had  much  upon  his  hands.  The  works  were 
not  even  in  a  state  of  defence,  and  fifteen  hundred 
men  were  all  he  could  command  to  compete  with  as 
many  thousands.  In  order  to  stimulate  his  men  to 
industry,  and  give  them  an  interest  in  completing  the 
works,  General  Macornb  divided  them  into  parties, 
placing  them  near  the  several  forts;  declaring,  in 
general  orders,  that  each  detachment  should  garrison 
the  fort  at  which  they  laboured,  and  the  men  were 
bound  to  defend  it  with  their  lives.  This  view  of  the 
subject  awakened  all  their  enthusiasm;  they  worked 
day  and  night,  and  swore  to  conquer  or  die.*  The 
deliberation  with  which  the  enemy  advanced  gave 
time  for  the  necessary  preparations;  and  the  activity 
and  zeal  of  our  officers  and  men,  placed  matters  in  a 
tolerable  state  of  defence  when  the  enemy  made  his 
descent  upon  the  place.  The  enemy  was  expected  in 
two  columns,  one  by  the  way  of  the  Lake,  crossing 
Dead-Creek,  where  an  advanced  guard  with  arms 
and  a  fieldpiece  had  been  stationed,  in  order  to 
skirmish  with,  and  annoy  them  in  every  possible 
way.  The  other  column  was  on  the  western  or 
Beekmantown  road,  and  from  the  fourth  inst.  until 

*  The  above  statement  I  received  from  General  Macomb  himself, 
who  also  remarked,  that  the  patriotism  manifested  by  his  officers  and 
soldiers  to  a  man  on  that  occasion,  had  for  ever  riveted  his  esteem. 
He  said  that  when  they  threw  themselves  into  that  fort,  he  told  them 
they  were  to  defend  or  perish  with  it,  and  that  if  there  was  a  man  there 
who  was  not  willing  to  make  this  sacrifice  for  the  general  good  he  was 
at  liberty  to  leave  the  regiment;  that  his  own  determination  was  to 
sustain  the  siege,  or  blow  up  the  fort  with  all  its  military  stores: — not 
a  man  moved  to  go, — they  were  unanimous  in  the  high  resolve  to 
conquer  or  die.  General  Macomb  related  these  circumstances  to  me 
a  few  weeks  after  the  battle.  The  tears  of  a  soldier  filled  his  eyes  as 
he  spoke  of  the  magnanimity  of  his  officers  and  men. 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  19 

the  eleventh,  there  was  constant  skirmishing  between 
the  British  advance  guards  and  our  militia  and  Ver 
mont  volunteers,  which  caused  great  alarm  in  the 
minds  of  the  peaceable  inhabitants.  I  will  not  here 
attempt  a  regular  description  of  the  movements  of  the 
contending  armies;  I  merely  wish  the  reader  to  under 
stand  their  relative  position,  that  he  may  the  more 
readily  comprehend  the  situation  of  those  who  were 
engaged  in  the  scenes  I  am  about  to  relate.  My  notes 
fail  me  with  regard  to  the  exact  date  of  the  general 
alarm  throughout  the  village.  According  to  the  best 
of  my  recollection,  however,  the  town  was  deserted 
by  the  inhabitants  on  or  about  the  fourth  of  September, 
1814. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  a  lovely  day,  and  notwithstanding  the  war 
like  preparations  I  have  described  above,  all  nature 
wore  the  aspect  of  peace  and  tranquillity.  The  rich 
foliage  of  the  landscape  was  in  full  beauty:  the  early 
autumn  shrubbery  seemed  the  very  perfection  of 
nature.  The  river  Saranac  was  winding  its  serpen 
tine  course  between  the  banks,  (on  each  side  of 
which,  the  little  village  of  Pittsburgh  rose  in  pic 
turesque  beauty,)  and  as  it  fell,  sparkling  and  foaming 
over  the  mill-dam,  pursued  its  devious  way  under  the 
bridge  and  gently  rolled  along  to  pour  its  waters  into 
the  beautiful  Bay  of  Cumberland,  which  stretched 
before  the  eye  in  the  distance.  The  waves  of  the 
lake  were  laving  the  variegated  shrubbery  which 
adorned  its  banks.  The  beautiful  islands  were  peace 
fully  reclining  upon  its  bosom,  and  the  blue  moun 
tains  rising  in  grand  succession  beyond,  lent  a  degree 
of  sublimity  to  the  scene. 


20  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  fleet  of  M'Donough,  moored  within  the  Bay, 
was  gallantly  riding  at  anchor,  as  if  in  the  proud  con 
sciousness  of  coining  victory,  yet,  evincing  in  its 
calm  and  graceful  outline,  no  preparation  for  the 
scene  of  carnage  which  was  so  soon  to  deface  its  love 
liness;  all  was  peace  and  serenity  in  the  landscape, 
forming  altogether  a  picture  of  inimitable  grandeur 
and  beauty,  and  a  striking  contrast  to  the  agitation 
which  marked  the  countenance  of  a  lady,  who  was 
seated  at  the  little  parlour  window  of  a  pleasant  but 
unpretending  mansion,  which  looked  out  upon  the 
scenery  I  have  attempted  to  describe.  There  sat  the 
young  mourner,  communing  with  her  own  heart, 
which  laboured  with  painful  forebodings  as  to  the 
issue  of  the  engagement,  which,  it  was  anticipated, 
would  soon  take  place  between  the  contending  armies, 
and  at  the  same  time  watching  with  all  a  mother's 
fondness  the  gambols  of  her  only  remaining  son,  a  child 
of  three  years  old,  and  a  pet  dog,  who  were  playing 
on  the  grass  under  the  shade  of  the  tall  poplars  which 
grew  near  the  window.  She  was  very  pale,  and  her 
face  bore  the  marks  of  deep  mental  suffering;  her 
wasted  frame  told  that  pain  and  sorrow  had  made 
deep  ravages  upon  her  naturally  delicate  constitution. 
She  seemed  in  deep  meditation,  and  frequently 
brushed  the  tear-drop  from  her  eye,  with  the  obvious 
resolution  to  suppress  her  emotions.  The  child,  at 
length  wearied  with  the  vain  effort  to  harness  Fidele 
in  a  little  chair,  which  he  substituted  for  a  carriage, 
sprang  upon  the  piazza  and  jumping  on  the  seat 
under  the  window,  seized  his  mother  affectionately 
around  the  neck:  "Oh!  don't  cry,  mamma — you  pro 
mised  papa  you  would  not  cry  any  more  for  dear 
little  brother  Oliver.  Oh  mamma!  lie  is  an  angei  in 
heaven  now — up  in  that  bright  beautiful  heaven — 
don't  cry  any  more — (and  the  sweet  child  wiped  the 
tears  from  her  pale  cheek  with  the  corner  of  his  little 
white  apron) — we  will  soon  go  to  that  beautiful  place 
to  see  him.  Sister  Anna  savs  he  can't  come  back 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  21 

to  us.  I  am  glad  that  naughty  bonny-horse  did  not 
kill  mamma  too;"  and  again  he  wound  his  little  arms 
around  her  neck  and  covered  her  with  kisses.  At 
that  moment  a  man  on  horseback  dashed  furiously 
along,  passing  over  the  bridge  to  the  cantonment. 
In  a  few  moments  all  seemed  bustle  and  confusion  in 
the  streets.  Mrs.  Stanley  watched  with  a  beating 
heart  the  movements  she  could  not  understand,  yet 
apprehending  they  were  in  some  way  connected  with 
the  expected  invasion,  when  all  at  once  her  two  little 
daughters  came  flyins;  in. 

"Oh  mamma!  the  British!  the  British  are  coming! 
our  teacher  said  so,  and  told  us  to  hasten  home  to  our 
parents  before  the  streets  were  in  confusion;  she  kept 
Louisa  and  I  with  her  until  she  was  ready  to  go  home, 
and  came  nearly  home  with  us  herself,  fearing  we 
might  get  hurt;  and  mamma,"  said  Louisa,"  you  don't 
know  how  she  cried  and  kissed  us.  and  said  she  hoped 
God  would  bring  us  together  again  some  time  or  other 
— but — look  mamma!  what  are  they  doing  over  the 
river?"  Mrs.  Stanley  saw  at  once  from  the  general 
commotion  that  something  unusual  was  going  on  — 
Anna  and  Louisa  were  old  enough  to  remember  the 
events  of  the  preceding  summer.  They  had  not  for 
gotten  the  horrors  attending  their  flight,  nor  the  deso 
lation  which  awaited  their  return;  their  little  hearts 
trembled: — they  threw  their  arms  around  their  mo 
ther's  neck,  weeping  violently.  Little  Charles  caught 
the  contagion,  and  although  he  did  not  understand 
the  cause  of  alarm,  wept  from  sympathy.  Mrs. 
Stanley  was  still  feeble,  not  having  perfectly  recovered 
from  injuries  received  when  thrown  from  a  carriage 
a  few  months  before.  She  was  aware  that  the  safety 
of  her  little  family,  perhaps  the  life  of  her  sick  hus 
band,  depended  upon  her  own  firmness  and  good 
management.  After  putting  up  a  silent  prayer  to  that 
Being  who  had  so  marvellously  protected,  when  in 
stant  and  certain  death  seemed  to  menace  her,  that 
he  would  give  her  wisdom  and  strength  and  courage 


20  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  fleet  of  M'Donough,  moored  within  the  Bay, 
was  gallantly  riding  at  anchor,  as  if  in  the  proud  con 
sciousness  of  corning  victory,  yet.  evincing  in  its 
calm  and  graceful  outline,  no  preparation  for  the 
scene  of  carnage  which  was  so  soon  to  deface  its  love 
liness;  all  was  peace  and  serenity  in  the  landscape, 
forming  altogether  a  picture  of  inimitable  grandeur 
and  beauty,  and  a  striking  contrast  to  the  agitation 
which  marked  the  countenance  of  a  lady,  who  was 
seated  at  the  little  parlour  window  of  a  pleasant  but 
unpretending  mansion,  which  looked  out  upon  the 
scenery  I  have  attempted  to  describe.  There  sat  the 
young  mourner,  communing  with  her  own  heart,, 
which  laboured  with  painful  forebodings  as  to  the 
issue  of  the  engagement,  which,  it  was  anticipated, 
would  soon  take  place  between  the  contending  armies, 
and  at  the  same  time  watching  with  all  a  mother's 
fondness  the  gambols  of  her  only  remainingson,  a  child 
of  three  years  old,  and  a  pet  dog,  who  were  playing 
on  tiie  grass  under  the  shade  of  the  tall  poplars  which 
grew  near  the  window.  She  was  very  pale,  and  her 
face  bore  the  marks  of  deep  mental  suffering;  her 
wasted  frame  told  that  pain  and  sorrow  had  made 
deep  ravages  upon  her  naturally  delicate  constitution. 
She  seemed  in  deep  meditation,  and  frequently 
brushed  the  tear-drop  from  her  eye,  with  the  obvious 
resolution  to  suppress  her  emotions.  The  child,  at 
length  wearied  with  the  vain  effort  to  harness  Fidele 
in  a  little  chair,  which  he  substituted  for  a  carriage, 
sprang  upon  the  piazza  and  jumping  on  the  seat 
under  the  window,  seized  his  mother  affectionately 
around  the  neck:  "Oh!  don't  cry,  mamma — you  pro 
mised  papa  you  would  not  cry  any  more  for  dear 
little  brother  Oliver.  Oh  mamma!  he  is  an  angel  in 
heaven  now — up  in  that  bright  beautiful  heaven — 
don't  cry  any  more — (and  the  sweet  child  wiped  the 
tears  from  her  pale  cheek  with  the  corner  of  his  little 
white  apron) — we  will  soon  go  to  that  beautiful  place 
to  see  him.  Sister  Anna  savs  he  can't  come  back 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  21 

tn  us.  I  am  glad  that  naughty  bonny-horse  did  not 
kill  mamma  too;"  and  again  he  wound  his  litlle  arms 
around  her  neck  and  covered  her  with  kisses.  At 
that  moment  a  man  on  horseback  dashed  furiously 
along,  passing  over  the  bridge  to  the  cantonment. 
In  a  few  moments  all  seemed  bustle  and  confusion  in 
the  streets.  Mrs.  Stanley  watched  with  a  beating 
heart  the  movements  she  could  not  understand,  yet 
apprehending  they  were  in  some  way  connected  with 
the  expected  invasion,  when  all  at  once  her  two  little 
daughters  came  flying  in. 

"Oh  mamma!  the  British!  the  British  are  coming! 
our  teacher  said  so,  and  told  us  to  hasten  home  to  our 
parents  before  the  streets  were  in  confusion;  she  kept 
Louisa  and  I  with  her  until  she  was  ready  to  go  home, 
and  came  nearly  home  with  us  herself,  fearing  we 
might  get  hurt;  and  mamma,"  said  Louisa,"  you  don't 
know  how  she  cried  and  kissed  us.  and  said  she  hoped 
God  would  bring  us  together  again  some  time  or  other 

>->  o  o 

— but — look  mamma!  what  are  they  doing  over  the 
river?"  Mrs.  Stanley  saw  at  once  from  the  general 
commotion  that  something  unusual  was  going  on  — 
Anna  and  Louisa  were  old  enough  to  remember  the 
events  of  the  preceding  summer.  They  had  not  for 
gotten  the  horrors  attending  their  flight,  nor  the  deso 
lation  which  awaited  their  return;  their  little  hearts 
trembled: — they  threw  their  arms  around  their  mo 
ther's  neck,  weeping  violently.  Little  Charles  caught 
the  contagion,  and  although  he  did  not  understand 
the  cause  of  alarm,  wept  from  sympathy.  Mrs. 
Stanley  was  still  feeble,  not  having  perfectly  recovered 
from  injuries  received  when  thrown  from  a  carriage 
a  few  months  before.  She  was  aware  that  the  safety 
of  her  little  family,  perhaps  the  life  of  her  sick  hus 
band,  depended  upon  her  own  firmness  and  good 
management.  After  putting  up  a  silent  prayer  to  that 
Being  who  had  so  marvellously  protected,  when  in 
stant  and  certain  death  seemed  to  menace  her,  that 
he  would  give  her  wisdom  and  strength  and  courage 


24  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

approaching  trials.  She  prayed  for  judgment  to  di 
rect,  grace  to  sustain  her,  and  above  ali,  for  perfect 
submission  to  his  holy  will.  Her  spirit  rose  with  the 
necessity  of  exertion,  and  with  a  mind  fortified,  and 
strengthened  by  communion  with  the  High  and  Holy 
One,  felt  prepared  to  do  all,  and  brave  all  for  the 
safety  of  the  precious  charge  committed  to  her  care. 

She  entered  her  husband's  room,  and  with  as  much 
caution  as  possible,  communicated  to  him  the  sta4e  of 
affairs.  He  bore  the  tidings  with  more  composure 
than  she  feared,  and  they  hastened  to  decide  upon  the 
best  possible  arrangement  for  the  safety  of  the  family. 

Mrs.  Stanley  proposed  sending  the  children  to  Peru, 
with  Cynthia,  a  faithful,  good  girl,  who  had  lived 
some  time  in  the  family,  and  whose  mother  lived 
in  Peru;  she  would  take  them  directly  to  the  house  of 
her  mother,  where  they  would  be  safe,  until  the  Doc 
tor  and  Mrs.  Stanley  could  join  them,  or  until  after 
the  battle,  and  she  (Mrs.  Stanley)  would  remain  with 
Polly,  a  little  girl  of  fourteen,  who  was  bound  to  the 
family  by  indentures,  and  take  care  of  Dr.  Stanley, 
who,  his  wife  affirmed,  was  too  feeble  to  use  any 
exertions  at  present.  Roused  by  this  proposition  to 
a  sense  of  the  danger  and  indignity  to  which  his 
feeble  and  beloved  wife  would  be  exposed,  the  shock 
her  nerves  might  sustain,  from  the  scenes  of  carnage 
she  must  in  that  case  witness,  the  insults  to  which  she 
might  be  exposed  from  a  lawless  soldiery,  and  danger 
from  the  shot  of  both  armies,  which  were,  as  he  sup 
posed,  to  be  stationed  one  in  front,  and  the  other  in 
the  rear  of  his  own  dwelling,  as  the  cannon  played 
across  the  river,  he  expostulated  warmly  against  this 
plan,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  excitement,  rose  from  the 
bed  quickly  and  unassisted.  Mrs.  Stanley,  alarmed  at 
this  sudden  accession  of  strength,  which  she  knew 
must  proceed  from  morbid  excitement,  dreaded,  lest 
his  exertions  in  leaving  town  might  prove  fatal  to  her 
hopes — became  more  anxious  to  remain,  for  every 
other  misfortune  seemed  light,  compared  with  the 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  25 

thought  of  losing  her  husband.  She  then  proposed  to 
transfer  to  the  cellar  the  comforts  they  would  require 
to  sustain  them  until  after  the  engagement.  This  plan 
was,  in  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Stanley,  more  preposterous 
than  the  first,  and  he  said  at  once,  it  would  not  do: 
should  she,  by  some  miracle,  suddenly  become  hardy 
enough  to  live  and  sleep  in  a  cold,  damp  cellar  for  a 
week  or  two,  (for  there  was  no  knowing  how  long  the 
fort  would  hold  out,)  a  burning  firebrand  thrown  into 
the  house  by  the  Indians,  or  a  hot  shot  from  our  own 
fort,  might  light  a  flame  above  them  which  would  bury 
them  in  the  ruins  of  their  own  dwelling.  There  was 
no  time  to  be  lost;  the  afternoon  was  wearing  away. 
Dr.  Stanley  insisted  on  substituting  his  usual  dress  for 
his  sick  wrapper,  in  order  to  step  about  the  room  and 
try  the  measure  of  his  strength.  Mrs.  Stanley  ordered 
some  light  nourishment  to  be  prepared  to  sustain  him 
under  this  strong  emotion,  and  tying  on  her  hat,  told 
him  she  would  step  out,  and  if  possible  engage  teams 
to  carry  away  their  goods.  As  she  passed  the  parlour 
door  she  stepped  in  to  see  how  the  little  ones  came  on. 
She  found  them  composed,  yet  watching  with  anxious 
and  wondering  eyes  the  scene  of  bustle  and  confusion 
which  was  passing  in  the  streets.  They  flew  to  her; 
a  kiss  and  a  look  of  approbation  was  their  reward; 
telling  them  her  errand  out,  she  directed  Cynthia  to 
put  up  some  changes  for  herself  and  the  children,  and 
then  begin  to  pack  the  furniture  as  fast  as  possible; 
this  done,  she  hastened  out  on  her  uncertain  mission. 
The  village  now  presented  a  scene  of  deep  and  thrill 
ing  interest.  The  small  force  which  remained  at 
Plattsburgh  after  Gen.  Izard  left  for  Sackett's  Harbor, 
amounting,  as  I  before  said,  to  only  fourteen  hundred 
men,  who  were  now  to  cope  with  as  many  thousands, 
had  retired  into  the  fort.  Guards  and  sentinels  were 
posted  in  the  streets  and  environs  of  the  village, — 
parties  of  volunteers  and  militia  were  constantly  sal 
lying  forth  in  small  bands,  to  harass  the  enemy,  who 
had  encamped  at  little  Chazy,  and  by  pulling  down 


26  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

bridges,  and  throwing  trees  and  other  impediments  to 
their  march  across  the  roads,  so  to  annoy,  as  to  delay 
their  entrance  until  our  brave  commander  should  have 
time  to  make  the  best  possible  disposition  of  his  hand 
ful  of  men,  to  meet  a  force  so  superior.  Expresses 
were  riding  back  and  forth  constantly:  guns  and 
bayonets  were  seen  glittering  in  the  sunbeams;  all, 
every  thing  presenting  a  striking  evidence  of  the  state 
of  excitement  which  prevailed  throughout  the  village 
and  camp.  As  Mrs.  Stanley  stepped  out  of  the  gate, 

she  met  her  kind  friend  and  neighbour  Mr.  S , 

who  came  to  inquire  her  plans.  He  knew  Dr.  Stanley 
was  ill,  and  felt  interested  in  the  situation  of  this 
helpless  little  family,  and  as  an  intimacy  subsisted 
between  his  wife  and  daughters  and  Mrs.  Stanley,  he 
felt  he  could  hardly  join  them  without  being  able  to 
give  some  account  of  her  situation.  Mrs.  Stanley 
mentioned  her  fears  for  her  husband,  and  her  plan  of 

remaining  in  her  own  house.     Mr.  S confirmed 

all  Dr.  Stanley's  apprehensions  on  the  subject,  and 
entreated  her  by  all  means  not  to  delay  leaving  until 
the  guard  was  set  around  the  village.  "  My  dear 
madam,"  said  he,  "  there  is  no  safety  for  you  here; 
perhaps  the  first  gun  fired  from  our  own  fort  may  end 

your  life."  Thanking  Mr.  S for  his  kindness,  she 

made  as  much  expedition  as  possible,  leaning  upon 
the  staff  of  her  umbrella,  for  that  support  which  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  receive  from  the  protecting 
arm  of  a  friend.  She  crossed  the  bridge,  and  entering 
the  store  of  a  merchant  with  whom  her  husband  was 
in  the  habit  of  transacting  business,  asked  his  assist 
ance  in  procuring  wagons  to  send  off  their  goods. 
He  told  her,  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  even  a 
wheelbarrow,  every  thing  was  in  requisition — and 
advised  her  to  send  to  Peru.  She  wrote  a  note  to  a 
friend,  desiring  him  to  send  a  couple  of  large  lumber 
wagons  with  all  speed,  feeling  thankful  that  their  own 
little  pony  was  quietly  feeding  in  the  stable,  ready  to 
be  put  before  the  little  pleasure  wagon,  any  moment 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  27 

when  the  safety  of  the  family  should  render  it  neces 
sary  for  them  to  leave  the  place.  As  with  a  feeble 
step  and  almost  breaking  heart,  poor  Mrs.  Stanley 
ascended  the  piazza,  her  children  flew  to  her  arms, 
arid  tears  and  smiles  were  her  reward  for  her  exer 
tions  to  protect  them.  Never  had  they  seemed  so  dear, 
so  interesting  as  at  that  moment.  They  had  all  been 
busy,  and  had  accomplished  a  great  deal.  Mrs.  Stan 
ley  directed  Cynthia  to  put  up  a  large  basket  of  pro 
visions,  wisely  concluding  that  food  might  be  scarce 
in  a  little  hamlet  where  so  many  hundreds  were  un 
expectedly  thrown  upon  the  hospitality  of  the  inhabi 
tants.  They  were  now  ready,  and  Mrs.  Stanley  knew 
of  no  other  way  to  send  them  but  by  procuring  seats 
for  them  on  one  of  the  many  loaded  wagons  which 
were  constantly  passing  from  Chazy  and  Cumberland- 
Head.  She  had  hardly  resolved  upon  this  step,  when 
she  heard  the  sound  of  wagons;  on  hailing  one  of 
them,  to  her  infinite  relief,  she  found  it  to  be  the  pro 
perty  of  a  respectable  Quaker,  whom  she  had  often 
seen,  and  whose  reputation  she  knew  to  be  good. 
After  some  little  hesitation,  and  the  offer  of  a  liberal 
reward,  she  procured  seats  for  Cynthia,  the  children, 
Fidele,  and  the  basket.  They  were  to  be  taken  im 
mediately  to  the  home  of  Cynthia,  where  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Stanley  were  to  join  them  as  soon  as  the  wa 
gons  came  to  take  their  household  goods.  The  trial 
of  parting  with  her  children  was  almost  too  much  for 
Mrs.  Stanley.  The  fortune  of  war  might  separate 
them  for  ever;  the  poor  little  things  wept,  and  en 
treated  to  stay  until  their  parents  went,  but  Mrs.  S. 
knew  it  was  her  duty  to  remain  until  she  had  secured 
their  property.  She  had  been  too  great  a  sufferer  on 
the  preceding  summer,  not  to  perceive  the  necessity 
of  this  decision.  It  was  uncertain  when  the  teams 
would  arrive,  and  it  was  important  that  the  children 
should  be  removed  to  a  place  of  safety  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  Under  these  circumstances  she  found  it  neces 
sary  to  suppress  her  own  feelings,  cheering  the  little 


28  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

ones  by  (he  hope  of  a  speedy  reunion.  After  remind 
ing  them  of  their  promises  to  be  calm,  and  .submit  to 
the  necessity  of  the  case,  she  saw  them  comfortably 
stowed  away  amid  beds  and  boxes,  and  with  an 
almost  breaking  heart  returned  to  the  now  solitary 
parlour. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  HEAVY  load  was  now  removed  from  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Stanley.  Her  children,  she  trusted,  were  safe 
under  the  care  of  the  kind  old  woman  to  whom  she 
had  consigned  them,  and  her  heart  was  filled  with 
gratitude  to  that  all-gracious  Being  who  had  thus  far 
prospered  her  exertions  for  their  safety.  Deep,  and 
all  absorbing  anxiety  for  the  health,  and  perhaps  life 
of  their  father,  had  now  taken  possession  of  her 
mind:  a  relapse  might  be  fatal;  in  this  emergency, 
every  thing  depended  upon  herself.  As  the  import 
ance  of  the  charge  pressed  upon  her  mind  it  almost 
overpowered  her.  Again  she  commended  herself  and 
her  dear  ones  to  the  care  of  her  Almighty  Father, 
and  again  her  spirit  rose  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  her 
situation.  As  the  shades  of  evening  descended,  the 
scene  assumed  a  deeper  interest.  The  rumbling  of 
carriages,  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  running  and  con 
fusion  of  foot  passengers,  the  deep  hoarse  tones  of  the 
sentinel,  as  the  anxious  "  who  comes  there?"  floated 
on  the  evening  breeze,  the  portentous  roll  of  the 
drum  as  it  beat  tattoo,  all  sunk  upon  the  heart  of 
that  lone  one,  and  reminded  her  of  the  weighty  re 
sponsibilities  which  rested  upon  her.  After  urging 
him  to  take  a  cup  of  tea,  her  first  care  was  to  get  her 
husband  quietly  in  bed  for  the  night,  fearing  the  effect 
which  the  fatigue  and  anxiety  of  this  eventful  day 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  29 

might  have  upon  his  feeble  frame.  By  kind  care  and 
good  nursing  she  hoped  to  prepare  him  for  the  duties 
of  the  morrow.  This  clone,  their  own  simple  tea  de 
spatched,  with  the  aid  of  Polly  she  set  herself  to  com 
plete  the  packing,  ready  for  the  wagons,  which  were 
expected  at  midnight.  Her  exertions  were  indeed 
almost  superhuman:  that  was  truly  a  night  of 
dreadful  anxiety.  Oh!  how  her  heart  beat  as  the 
couriers  galloped  by,  and  with  stentorian  voices  pro 
claimed  tlie  position  of  the  enemy.  The  preparations 
within  the  cantonment  continued  all  night:  there  all 
seemed  bustle — lights  flying  in  every  direction  in  the 
village  gave  notice  of  some  unusual  event,  while  the 
distant  voice  of  the  sentinel  hailing  some  passing 
passenger,  rang  upon  the  midnight  air,  like  echoes 
of  fearful  presage.  At  daybreak  the  wagons  came, 
and  the  heart  of  the  anxious  parent  was  relieved  by 
hearing  of  the  safe  arrival  of  her  loved  ones  at  their 
place  of  destination.  With  a  weight  removed  from 
her  heart,  Mrs.  Stanley  was  hastening  to  her  hus 
band's  room  to  communicate  the  intelligence,  when 
to  her  utter  astonishment,  there  he  stood,  dressed — 
looking  pale,  but  animated;  with  a  firm  step  he  ad 
vanced  to  greet  his  amazed  wife. — "My  dear,  dear 
husband,"  said  she,  much  agitated,  "  why  will  you 
exert  yourself  in  this  way?  this  strength  cannot  be 
real;  I  have  serious  apprehensions  as  to  the  effect  of 
this  excitement  upon  you,  weak  as  you  now  are." — 
Her  pale  and  care-worn  features  alarmed  him;  he  as 
sured  her  the  excitement  caused  by  the  approach  of 
the  enemy,  was  the  very  thing  necessary  for  his  re 
storation — it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have  hap 
pened  to  him — he  was  restored — -"but  oh!  Margaret," 
said  he.  "  I  fear  you  are  ill!  you  look  so  pale  and 
languid!"  When  told  she  had  not  been  in  bed 
during  the  night,  he  was  shocked  and  alarmed  lest 
such  excessive  fatigue  should  entirely  exhaust  her 
delicate  frame.  "  My  dear  wife,  you  must  dismiss  this 
anxiety  from  your  mind;  be  not  alarmed  for  me;  I 


28  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

ones  by  the  hope  of  a  speedy  reunion.  After  remind 
ing  them  of  their  promises  to  be  calm,  and  submit  to 
the  necessity  of  the  case,  she  saw  them  comfortably 
stowed  away  amid  beds  and  boxes,  and  with  an 
almost  breaking  heart  returned  to  the  now  solitary 
parlour. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  HEAVY  load  was  now  removed  from  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Stanley.  Her  children,  she  trusted,  were  safe 
under  the  care  of  the  kind  old  woman  to  whom  she 
had  consigned  them,  and  her  heart  was  filled  with 
gratitude  to  that  all-gracious  Being  who  had  thus  far 

o  o  o 

prospered  her  exertions  for  their  safety.  Deep,  and 
all  absorbing  anxiety  for  the  health,  and  perhaps  life 
of  their  father,  had  now  taken  possession  of  her 
mind:  a  relapse  might  be  fatal;  in  this  emergency, 
every  thing  depended  upon  herself.  As  the  import 
ance  of  the  charge  pressed  upon  her  mind  it  almost 
overpowered  her.  Again  she  commended  herself  and 
her  dear  ones  to  the  care  of  her  Almighty  Father, 
and  again  her  spirit  rose  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  her 
situation.  As  the  shades  of  evening  descended,  the 
scene  assumed  a  deeper  interest.  The  rumbling  of 
carriages,  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  running  and  con 
fusion  of  foot  passengers,  the  deep  hoarse  tones  of  the 
sentinel,  as  the  anxious  "  who  comes  there?"  floated 
on  the  evening  breeze,  the  portentous  roll  of  the 
drum  as  it  beat  tattoo,  all  sunk  upon  the  heart  of 
that  lone  one,  and  reminded  her  of  the  weighty  re 
sponsibilities  which  rested  upon  her.  After  urging 
him  to  take  a  cup  of  tea,  her  first  care  was  to  get  her 
husband  quietly  in  bed  for  the  night,  fearing  the  effect 
which  the  fatigue  and  anxiety  of  this  eventful  day 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  29 

might  have  upon  his  feeble  frame.  By  kind  care  and 
good  nursing  she  hoped  to  prepare  him  for  the  duties 
of  the  morrow.  This  done,  their  own  simple  tea  de 
spatched,  with  the  aid  of  Polly  she  set  herself  to  com 
plete  the  packing,  ready  for  the  wagons,  which  were 
expected  at  midnight.  Her  exertions  were  indeed 
almost  superhuman:  that  was  truly  a  night  of 
dreadful  anxiety.  Oh!  how  her  heart  beat  as  the 
couriers  galloped  by,  and  with  stentorian  voices  pro 
claimed  the  position  of  the  enemy.  The  preparations 
within  the  cantonment  continued  all  night:  there  all 
seemed  bustle — lights  flying  in  every  direction  in  the 
village  gave  notice  of  some  unusual  event,  while  the 
distant  voice  of  the  sentinel  hailing  some  passing 
passenger,  rang  upon  the  midnight  air,  like  echoes 
of  fearful  presage.  At  daybreak  the  wagons  came, 
and  the  heart  of  the  anxious  parent  was  relieved  by 
hearing  of  the  safe  arrival  of  her  loved  ones  at  their 
place  of  destination.  With  a  weight  removed  from 
her  heart,  Mrs.  Stanley  was  hastening  to  her  hus 
band's  room  to  communicate  the  intelligence,  when 
to  her  utter  astonishment,  there  he  stood,  dressed — 
looking  pale,  but  animated;  with  a  firm  step  he  ad 
vanced  to  greet  his  amazed  wife. — "  My  dear,  dear 
husband,"  said  she,  much  agitated,  "  why  will  you 
exert  yourself  in  this  way?  this  strength  cannot  be 
real;  I  have  serious  apprehensions  as  to  the  effect  of 
this  excitement  upon  you,  weak  as  you  now  are." — 
Her  pale  and  care-worn  features  alarmed  him;  he  as 
sured  her  the  excitement  caused  by  the  approach  of 
the  enemy,  was  the  very  thing  necessary  for  his  re 
storation — it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have  hap 
pened  to  him — he  was  restored — "  but  oh!  Margaret," 
said  he.  "  I  fear  you  are  ill!  you  look  so  pale  and 
languid!"  When  told  she  had  not  been  in  bed 
during  the  night,  he  was  shocked  and  alarmed  lest 
such  excessive  fatigue  should  entirely  exhaust  her 
delicate  frame.  "  My  dear  wife,  you  must  dismiss  this 
anxiety  from  your  mind;  be  not  alarmed  for  me;  I 


SO  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

only  required  something  to  rouse  me  to  action,  and 
you  see  lam  well!  I  shall  go  after  breakfast  to  Peru, 
(unless  I  hear  intelligence  which  will  render  it  neces 
sary  to  take  you  with  me,)  and  engage  rooms  for  our 
reception.  Should  I  neglect  to  do  so,  it  is  very  pos 
sible  our  situation  may  be  uncomfortable  there,  as  so 
many  people  are  crowding  into  that  little  place  at 
once  and  without  warning."  Mrs.  Stanley  trembled 
with  apprehension;  she  knew  this  sudden  change  was 
unnatural,  yet  what  could  she  do?  "  I  must  risk  the 
consequences,"  said  she,  as  he  went  out  of  the  street 
door.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned,  saying  the 
British  were  still  encamped  at  Chazy — their  move 
ments  could  only  be  conjectured;  he  however  did 
not  apprehend  an  immediate  attack — they  certainly 
would  not  move  until  to-morrow — he  would  mount 
his  horse,  ride  to  Peru,  secure  comfortable  apart 
ments,  and  bring  her  tidings  of  the  children.  The  morn 
ing  was  fine,  his  resolution  taken,  and  she  yielded  a 
reluctant  consent.  To  be  left  alone  at  this  juncture 
was  dreadful!  With  a  quivering  lip  and  tearful  eye 
she  bade  him  farewell,  after  receiving  his  promise 
to  return  by  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  When  the 
little  gate  closed  upon  him,  the  desolation  of  her  feel 
ings  beggared  all  description.  She  threw  herself  into 
a  chair,  and  her  overcharged  heart  found  relief  in  a 
flood  of  tears;  she  wept  long  and  violently;  her 
memory  reverted  to  the  days  of  her  childhood  and 
youth,  when  she  was  the  pride  and  hope  of  a  widow 
ed  mother's  heart,  when  every  rational  wish  was 
gratified  the  moment  it  escaped  her  lips,  and  the 
slightest  indication  of  pain  or  distress  was  soothed  by 
that  mother's  fond  caress.  Now!  she  was  alone  — 
that  dear,  that  honoured  mother  slept  in  the  silent 
grave.  Her  own  health  had  received  a  severe  shock, 
and  now  desolate,  though  she  trusted  not  friendless, 
she  was  trembling  for  the  life  of  her  husband.  His 
instantaneous  recovery  could  not  be  real;  there  was 
a  quickness  of  motion,  a  strange  wildness  in  the  flash 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  31 

of  his  eye,  which  to  her  alarmed  imagination  beto 
kened  the  existence  of  fever.  Where  would  it  end? 
or  what  could  it  be?  she  thought  of  delirium  from  an 
over-heated  brain.  A  relapse  after  so  much  fatigue 
and  anxiety  must  prove  fatal!  She  had  parted  from 
her  children;  true,  she  expected  to  join  them  at  even 
ing,  but  how  many  circumstances  might  arise  to 
separate  them  for  ever!  the  thought  was  agonizing! 
She  arose  and  paced  the  room  in  a  state  of  mind  not 
easy  to  be  described;  another  flood  of  tears  came  to 
her  relief — she  remembered  the  many  dangers  through 
which  she  had  been  preserved,  and  her  confidence  in 
Him  who  had  hitherto  sustained  her,  returned.  She 
once  more  commended  her  husband  and  her  babes  to 
His  care,  and  felt  happy  in  the  consciousness  that 
she  had  a  Friend  at  the  helm,  who  could  guide  her 
little  barque  in  safety  through  this  perilous  sea.  She 
resolved  she  would  not  again  suffer  herself  to  be  so 
depressed,  but  would  seek  in  active  employment  an 
antidote  for  her  distress  and  axiety.  While  engaged 
in  some  domestic  arrangements,  a  knock  at  the  door 
startled  her.  A  knock  at  the  door  was  a  common  oc 
currence,  yet  at  that  time  it  was  unexpected.  She 
came  down  stairs  as  fast  as  her  weak  limbs  would 
permit,  and  on  opening  the  door,  was  surprised  and 
delighted  at  the  sight  of  a  young  friend  from  camp, 
an  officer  under  Gen.  Macornb;  his  surprise  at  finding 
her  still  in  town  was  only  equalled  by  his  fears  for 
her  safety.  He  urged  upon  her  the  necessity  of 
despatch,  and  on  inquiring  for  his  little  favourites, 
was  rejoiced  to  learn  they  were  safe  in  Peru.  "You 
have  been  wise  in  this,  my  dear  madam,  and  I  hope 
the  gude  man  will  return  soon  and  in  safety."  Mrs. 
Stanley  urged  him  Jo  come  in,  but  he  refused  to 
dismount.  The  officers,  by  strict  orders  were  con 
fined  within  the  camp;  he,  anxious  for  the  safety  of 
Dr.  Stanley's  family,  had  not  asked  the  boon  which 
he  knew  would  be  denied,  but  had  stolen  a  few  mo 
ments  when  he  thought  himself  unobserved,  and  rode 


32  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

across  the  bridge  with  all  speed  to  ascertain  the  situa 
tion  of  his  friends;  fearing,  as  he  did,  that  the  first 
gun  fired  might  prove  fatal  to  some  of  the  family,  he 
could  not  rest  until  he  knew  they  were  gone;  he  en 
treated  Mrs.  Stanley  to  lose  no  time,  then  extending 
his  hand,  bade  her  farewell  with  the  tone  and  air  of 
a  man  who  feels  he  is  taking  his  leave  of  friends  he 
may  never  meet  again.  Mrs.  Stanley  watched  his 
receding  form  as  he  rode  out  of  the  yard,  and  pnt  up 
a  silent  and  heartfelt  prayer  that  the  God  of  battles 
would  protect  him.  While  standing  at  the  door,  a 
low  peal  of  thunder  alarmed  her;  she  turned  to  ob 
serve  the  sky;  to  her  surprise  (for  the  morning  was 
beautiful),  it  was  now  overspread,  and  a  black 
thunder-cloud  was  rapidly  rising.  Oh!  where  was 
Dr.  Stanley?  was  he  in  the  woods?  or  had  he  not  left 
Peru  on  his  return?  The  storm  rose  rapidly  as  if  to 
bid  defiance  to  the  approaching  enemy— near,  and 
more  near  the  thunder  rolled,  and  the  livid  lightning 
streamed  along  the  heavens.  At  that  moment  a 
flash,  followed  instantly  by  a  tremendous  crash,  so 
shocked  the  nerves  of  the  lonely  sufferer,  that  she 
sunk  powerless  from  her  chair;  the  poor  frightened 
girl  threw  a  glass  of  water  in  her  face,  and  bathed 
her  hands  and  temples  in  cold  water;  returning  con 
sciousness  soon  rewarded  her  exertions.  Mrs.  Stanley 
had  not  yet  entirely  recovered  from  this  shock,  when 
a  man  on  horseback  rode  furiously  into  the  yard  in 
quiring  for  I)r.  Stanley — a  neighbouring  physician 
had  been  struck  by  the  same  flash  which  prostrated 
Mrs.  Stanley,  but  not  like  her  did  he  revive — poor 
man!  he  was  perfectly  paralyzed,  and  for  several 
weeks  his  life  was  in  jeopardy.  I  repeat  these  cir 
cumstances  to  show  how  every  thing  combined  to  in 
crease  the  horrors  of  this  poor  lady's  situation.  This 
proved  indeed  an  awful  day  to  her,  replete  with  the 
most  painful  suspense  she  had  ever  endured;  its  re 
collections  will  never  be  effaced  from  her  memory. 
The  rain  which  had  poured  in  torrents,  now  began  to 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  S3 

abate;  the  lightning  was  less  vivid,  and  the  distant 
rolling  thunder  gave  some  reason  to  hope  the  storm 
was  nearly  over.  But  not  so — shower  after  shower 
arose  in  quick  succession,  and  the  rain  continued  to 
pour  in  torrents.  The  hour  which  had  been  named 
for  the  return  of  the  husband  had  long  since  past;  the 
streets  were  still  filled  with  loaded  waggons  and  car 
riages;  families  were  flying  in  order  to  keep  before 
the  enemy.  The  inhabitants  of  Chazy  and  Cumber 
land-Head  were  pouring  along — foot  passengers — 
persons  on  horseback — boats  plying  on  the  lake 
laden  with  the  frightened  country  people,  but  no 
tidings  from  Dr.  Stanley.  There  sat  the  young  and 
unprotected  wife — the  agonized  mother,  with  every 
nerve  strained  to  discover  in  the  dim  and  clouded 
distance  some  trace  of  him  on  whom  her  every  hope 
depended.  Perhaps  exhausted  by  fatigue,  he  had 
fallen  from  his  horse!  and  even  now  lay  exposed  to 
the  pitiless  storm — perhaps  the  same  flash  of  light 
ning  which  had  prostrated  her  for  the  moment,  had 
levelled  her  husband  with  the  earth;  alone  in  the 
forest,  no  friend  at  hand  to  assist  him,  perhaps  at  this 
very  moment  his  lifeless  form  was  stretched  upon  the 
plain!  Overcome  with  these  imaginings  her  heart 
palpitated,  her  eyes  seemed  bursting  from  their 
sockets,  her  brain  reeled,  she  could  no  longer  bear 
the  presence  of  the  servant  girl  who  stood  watching 
the  changing  emotions  of  her  face  with  amazement, 
she  rushed  into  her  own  room,  and  prostrating  herself 
before  the  throne  of  mercy,  poured  forth  her  sorrows 
to  that  God  who  had  never  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her 
petitions.  The  Comforter  descended  with  healing 
upon  his  wings — she  arose  composed  and  submissive 
— her  trust  was  in  Him  who  had  promised  that  his 
grace  should  be  sufficient  for  her,  and  she  left  her 
room  reposing  on  the  strong  arm  of  her  Redeemer. 
Mrs.  Stanley  no  sooner  entered  the  solitary  parlour, 
than  her  attention  was  arrested  by  the  rapid  tramp  of 
the  express,  and  this  timid  sensitive  woman,  who  at 
3 


36  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

do?  you  will  not  remain  here?  you  must  not,"  "  If 
my  husband  should  be  detained,  which  God  forbid! 
I  will  cast  myself  upon  the  protection  of  the  British 
officers;  they  are  gentlemen,  they  surely  will  defend 
a  helpless  woman  like  myself  from  insult."  My  dear 
lady,"  said  he,  "  you  are  yet  too  young;  you  know 
little  of  the  world,  and  less  of  camps;  I  dare  not  trust 
you  to  such  uncertain  protection,  and  then,  observe," 
said  he, "Mrs.  Stanley,  observe  that  fortification  across 
the  river  directly  in  front  of  this  house."  "  I  do,  sir." 
"  On  the  hill  which  rises  at  the  extremity  of  your  gar 
den  the  enemy  will  in  all  probability  throw  up  breast 
works;  every  gun  in  yonder  fort  is  pointed  to  your 
dwelling,  and  the  opposite  defences  will  probably  be 
arranged  in  the  same  way,  and  you  will  find  yourelf 
exposed  to  the  fire  of  both  forts;  you  may  be  the 
victim  of  the  first  shot  that  is  fired;  1  cannot  leave  you 
thus,  neither  can  I  aid,  unless  you  will  consent  to 
share  my  fortune  in  an  open  boat  upon  this  stormy 
lake;  there  is  a  bright  moon,  although  it  may  be  ob 
scured  by  clouds;  I  think  the  night  promises  to  be 
boisterous;  1  shall  keep  before  the  enemy  if  possible, 
but  where  I  shall  pass  the  night  is  yet  uncertain.  I 
shall  remain  here  until  the  last  moment."  Mrs. 
Stanley  was  very  much  agitated,  and  uncertain  what 
she  ought  to  do.  Should  she  go,  she  might  place  a 
barrier  between  herself  and  family  which  would  pre 
vent  their  meeting  for  a  long  time,  if  ever.  Should 
the  enemy  penetrate  into  the  heart  of  the  country  as 
was  apprehended,  in  the  general  flight  and  confusion, 
she  might  lose  all  traces  of  her  dear  little  family,  and 
they  of  her.  Should  her  husband  return  and  find  his 
house  deserted,  in  his  weak  state  he  would  lose  his 
senses,  perhaps  throw  himself  into  the  camp  of  the 
invaders,  and  commit  some  outrage  that  would  cost 
him  his  life.  Torn  by  contending  feelings  and  opi 
nions,  poor  Mrs.  Stanley  stood  almost  motionless. 
"My  God  direct  me!"  she  mentally  exclaimed,  then 
turning  to  her  friend  she  extended  her  hand,  her  heart 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  37 

was  too  full  to  speak; — he  understood  her.  "  My  dear 
madam,"  said  he,  "you  know  not  the  danger  you 
brave;  I  will  again  look  in  upon  you;  you  will,  you 
must  change  your  resolution."  Little  Polly  stood, 
eagerly  devouring  with  open  mouth  and  wide  dis 
tended  eyes  every  word  which  fell  from  the  lips  of 
this  kind  judicious  friend,  (who  alas!  has  long  since 
done  with  the  tumults  and  vexations  of  life,)  and  as 
soon  as  he  was  gone,  she  flew  to  Mrs.  Stanley  and 
entreated  her  to  go  with  him.  She  fixed  her  tearful 
eyes  upon  the  child,  to  read  what  was  passing  in  her 
mind.  You  poor  helpless  little  thing!  thought  she,  I 
have  no  right  to  expose  you  to  dangers,  even  were  I 
resolved  to  brave  them  myself;  and  after  a  little  re-; 
flection,  made  up  her  mind  to  go  in  the  boat  with 

Mr.  S .     She  must  leave  a  letter,  however,  where 

her  husband  could  find  it,  should  he  come  after  they 
were  gone.  She  stepped  into  the  house  to  write. 
The  storm  had  passed;  the  setting  sun  streamed  across 
the  room,  in  all  its  glory  through  the  open  casement, 
and  as  its  parting  rays  ceased  to  glimmer  over  the 
landscape  it  seemed  to  her  excited  mind  as  a  prelude 
to  a  long,  long  night  of  misery — her  heart  swelled  — 
"This  will  not  do,"  she  cried,  "  I  must  be  a  woman 
now!  I  will  hasten  and  write."  She  turned  to  do 
so,  but  her  writing  implements  were  gone.  She  sent 

Polly  to  Mr.  S to  get  pen, ink  and  paper — he  was 

in  the  same  predicament  with  herself — what  was  to 
be  done?  She  took  a  piece  of  soft  pine  coal  from  the 
fire-place,  and  writing  upon  the  street  door  these 
words,  quietly  began  to  prepare  herself  for  her  expe 
dition  on  the  water. — "  To  whom  it  may  concern, — 
Mrs.  Stanley,  after  waiting  until  nearly  dark,  has  at 
length  embarked  in  a  small  boat  in  company  with 

Mr.  S ;  her  i'riends  will  find  her  somewhere  on 

the  lake-shore  between  Plattsbuigh  and  Peru;  perhaps 
on  Crab-Island.  She  is  safe  and  Polly  is  with  her." 
After  writing  this  notice  as  legibly  as  she  could,  she 
again  seated  herself  to  reflect  upon  the  step  she  was 


38  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

about  to  take.  She  was  not  satisfied  with  the  plan. 
Something  whispered  her  that  if  she  left  her  home, 
before  the  return  of  Dr.  Stanley,  they  would  never 
meet  again.  Once  more  she  retired  to  her  closet,  and 

O  ' 

implored  divine  assistance.  "Oh!  Father  in  heaven 
direct  me,"  she  again  prayed:  in  the  deepest  agony 
of  soul  she  entreated  that  God  would  make  her  duty 
manifest.  These  words  came  into  her  mind, — "Wait 
on  the  Lord,  be  of  good  courage,  and  he  shall 
strengthen  thine  heart."  Yes,  thought  she,  I  will  wait 
— in  his  own  good  time  he  will  deliver  me  from  these 
dangers.  In  her  excited  state  of  mind  this  passage  of 
Scripture  appeared  to  her  as  a  direct  expression  of 
the  mind  of  God  towards  her.  She  was  convinced  it 
was  her  duty  to  wait  God's  appointed  time.  She 
came  out  of  her  room  and  told  Polly  that  she  should 
remain;  the  poor  girl  looked  disappointed,  but  was 
silent.  Twilight  now  began  to  spread  its  gray  mantle 
around.  The  sound  of  the  evening  gun  came  boom 
ing  over  the  waters,  and  the  roll  of  the  drum  pealed 
upon  her  ear  like  the  knell  of  death.  The  shadows 
of  evening  deepened  around;  the  clouds  still  wore  a 
threatening  aspect,  and  plainly  indicated  another 
storm  in  the  course  of  the  night;  the  stars,  however, 
shone  out  in  all  their  brightness,  except  when  obscured 
by  transient  clouds,  and  the  full  moon  rose  in  the 

eastern  hemisphere  fitfully  bright.     Again  Mr.  S 

stood  on  the  piazza.  "  I  am  now  going,  my  dear 
madam,  and  I  again  entreat  you  to  go  with  me.  Her 
heart  was  too  full  to  reply;  it  seemed  as  if  she  was 
now  called  upon  to  separate  herself  in  this  hour  of 
peril,  from  her  last,  her  only  friend.  She  extended 
her  hand,  he  pressed  it  with  a  father's  tenderness.  He 
thought  of  his  own  daughters,  now  in  safety,  the  same 
age,  and  dear  friends  of  the  lonely  one  he  was  about 
to  leave  exposed  to  countless  dangers.  Again  he  en 
treated  her  to  go.  "  I  thank  you,  my  friend,  God 
only  knows  how  much  I  thank  you  —  but,  I  cannot  go; 
should  I  do  so,  I  may  never  see  my  husband  again! 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  39 

If  he  lives  he  will  come;  he  will  hover  round  this  spot, 
like  a  troubled  spirit  until  grief  and  anxiety  terminate 
the  life  which  fever  has  spared/'  At  that  moment 

the  courier  was  heard  approaching.     Mr.  S once 

more  bade  her  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  hastened 
into  the  street  to  hear  the  report.  The  enemy  were 
slowly  advancing  towards  Dead-Creek,  where  our 
pickets  were  placed;  he  dashed  on  to  camp  with  his 

intelligence,  while  Mr.  S ,  attended  by  two  men, 

went  down  the  river  bank  where  the  boat  was  moored. 
Mrs.  Stanley  and  her  little  Polly  seated  themselves 
on  the  piazza  to  watch  the  departure  of  the  boat,  and 
as  the  sound  of  the  receding  oars  died  on  her  ear,  she 
felt  as  if  her  last  hope  had  expired.  Who  can  paint 
the  desolation  of  those  lonely  ones!  The  girl  clung 
to  Mrs.  Stanley  for  protection  with  as  much  confi 
dence  as  a  babe  to  its  mother,  and  as  she,  (Mrs.  S.) 
became  aware  of  this,  the  more  sensible  was  she  of 
her  weighty  responsibilities.  The  inhabitants  had 
nearly  all  left  the  village;  ihe  streets  were  deserted; 
except  some  solitary  refugee  who  had  been  belated 
in  leaving  the  place,  not  a  citizen  remained,  not  a  fe 
male  except  the  two  desolate  beings  who  were  now 
marking  the  signs  of  the  times  in  the  gloomy  twilight. 
The  sentinels  who  were  stationed  for  the  night  were 
seen  pacing  backward  and  forward,  their  bayonets 
glittering  in  the  moonlight.  Across  the  river  could 
be  seen  much  of  the  bustle  of  preparation,  and  two  or 
three  times  Mrs.  Stanley  thought  she  saw  movements 
like  tearing  up  the  bridge.  The  Saranac  runs  in  a 
northerly  direction,  and  as  it  passes  through  to  the 
lake,  turns  to  the  east,  and  the  village  is  built  on  both 
sides  of  it,  being  connected  by  a  bridge.  The  house 
of  Dr.  Stanley  was  on  the  north  bank,  and  the  camp 
on  the  south.  There  were  two  bridges,  an  upper,  and 
a  lower,  which  latter,  though  not  opposite,  was  in  full 
view  of  his  house.  Should  they  tear  up  both,  how 
could  her  husband  cross  the  river?  Here  was  a  new 
source  of  alarm.  She  listened  to  the  strokes  of  the 


40  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

hammer,  and  the  fall  of  timber;  strained  her  aching 
eye-balls  in  the  fitful  moonlight  to  ascertain  the  nature, 
of  the  operations  going  on;  all  was  anxiety  and  sus 
pense.  The  house  clock  had  struck  ten,  and  every 
stroke  had  fallen  like  the  cold  hand  of  death  upon  the 
heart  of  the  agitated  sufferer.  She  heard  the  sound 
of  a  horse — she  started  from  her  seat — it  advanced 
— it  was  he — she  strained  her  eyes  and  ears— it  still 
advanced,  and  rapidly— it  was  he — the  husband, 
whom  a  few  minutes  before  she  had  thought  never 
to  see  again.  She  flew  to  the  gate — he  approached — 
and  turned  up  the  other  street — it  tvas  not  he! 


CHAPTER  V. 

SLOWLY  and  heavily  Mrs.  Stanley  ascended  the 
steps,  and  seated  herself  by  the  parlour  window. 
Her  thoughts  were  upon  her  husband  and  her  babes, 
from  whom  she  was,  perhaps,  separated  for  ever. 
Hope  still  lingered  around  her  heart;  she  felt  that  she 
had  done  her  duty,  and  prayed  that  she  might  be 
supported.  Again  the  moon  became  obscured,  and 
again  the  pale  flashes  of  lightning,  followed  by  low 
muttering  thunder,  foretold  another  storm — and, 
where  was  he,  the  wanderer?  She  well  knew  his 
anxiety  for  her  safety  would  have  prompted  him  to 
return  with  all  possible  speed — what  could  have  hap 
pened?  This  was  a  question  she  continually  asked 
herself.  The  clock  told  eleven.  "  Oh!  merciful  God 
protect  him;"  burst  from  her  agitated  lips,  and  all  her 
apprehensions  as  to  the  coming  battle  were  lost  in 
the  fearful  thought,  that  she  might  at  this  moment  be 
a  widow,  and  her  children  fatherless.  She  paced  the 
room  in  agony.  The  servant  girl  had,  by  the  re 
quest  of  Mrs.  Stanley,  prepared  herself  a  temporary 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  41 

couch,  (for  bed  or  sofa  none  remained  in  the  house,) 
and  exhausted  by  fatigue  had  fallen  asleep.  "  Sleep 
on,  poor  child,"  said  Mrs  Stanley  to  the  unconscious 
girl,  "this  transient  slumber  may  compose  your 
nerves  to  meet  our  coming  fate — poor  thing!  You 
little  know  the  trials  which,  perhaps,  ere  long  await 
yon;  sleep  while  you  can!"  Again  the  sound  of  a 
horse  trotting  briskly  along  the  bank  assailed  her 
ears;  she  flew  to  the  door,  and  in  the  dim  distance, 
the  moon  half  obscured  by  clouds,  saw  a  man  riding 
towards  the  house.  "Oh!  there  he  is!  that  must  be 
he!  no!  he  has  turned  up  the  other  street.  Father  in 
heaven  support  me!"  burst  from  the  almost  despair 
ing  wife.  As  she  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  she  saw 
the  figure  of  a  man  entering  the  large  gate  which  led 
to  the  back  door  and  stable;  she  hastened  in,  and 
arousing  Polly  from  her  brief  sleep,  they  proceeded  to 
the  kitchen;  it  was  now  near  midnight.  The  nerves 
of  Mrs.  Stanley  had  been  so  long  strained  by  this  in 
tense  anxiety,  that  the  sight  of  any  human  being  she 
thought  would  be  welcome.  The  loud  knock  was 
answered  by  her,  with  a  firm  and  calm,  "who  is 
there?"  "A  friend!"  was  the  response — "I  am  wet 
and  weary,  and  want  a  drink  of  milk."  Mrs.  Stan 
ley  unhesitatingly  opened  the  door,  and  a  man  ad 
vanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room; — a  half  supressed 
shriek  burst  from  her  lips  involuntarily,  while  Polly 
unconsciously  clung  to  her  mistress.  This  man  was 
the  only  one  who  in  that  hour  of  loneliness  and  deso 
lation  would  not  have  been  welcome;  a  reputed  mur 
derer,  and  had  twice  within  the  last  year  been  tried 
for  his  life.  About  three  months  since  he  was  acquit 
ted  on  the  second  charge.  Although  acquitted  for 
the  want  of  positive  evidence,  most  people  thought 
him  guilty,  and  so  general  was  the  opinion,  that  he 
was  shunned  by  the  children  in  the  streets  with  as 
much  horror,  as  a  traveller  would  shun  the  poisonous 
blast  laden  with  death  from  the  dreaded  "  Bolum 
Upas."  In  a  moment  the  lady  gained  her  self-pos- 


42  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

session,  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  and  directed  the  girl 
to  fill  his  pitcher  with  milk.  After  the  first  shock, 
even  the  presence  of  this  man  was  a  relief.  He  re 
marked  that  he  had  been  all  day  engaged  in  remov 
ing  his  family  and  effects,  he  came  in  half  an  hour 
before,  hungry,  wet  and  weary;  finding  nothing  in  his 
own  larder,  and  seeing  a  light  at  the  house  of  Dr. 
Stanley,  he  had  ventured  to  Tax  her  hospitality  for  a 
drink  of  milk  Mrs.  Stanley  ordered  the  remains  of 
their  almost  untasted  dinner  to  be  placed  before  her 
singular  guest,  who  made  up  by  the  compliment  he 
paid  it  for  the  neglect  which  the  good  cheer  had  met 
with  at  dinner-time.  A  snug  little  fire  with  its  cheer 
ful  blaze  seemed  to  invite  him  to  dry  his  dripping 
garments;  he  quietly  drew  his  chair  to  the  hearth,  and 
making  himself  at  home,  began  to  discuss  the  events 
of  the  day,  asserted  there  could  be  but  one  opinion  as 
to  the  issue  of  the  battle,  which  must  end  in  the  de 
feat  of  the  Americans,  and  assured  the  lady,  that  a 
large  body  of  Indians  would  be  let  loose  upon  the  in 
habitants,  who  would  burn  and  destroy  all  before 
them,  spreading  desolation  throughout  that  whole 
region  of  country. 

Mrs.  Stanley  did  not  suffer  herself  to  be  discom 
posed  by  his  representations,  but  he  succeeded  in 
alarming  the  poor  girl,  who  now,  for  the  first  time, 
trembled  in  every  limb.  A  tremendous  clap  of  thun 
der  reminded  the  man  that  he  was  not  at  home: 
hastily  rising,  he  thanked  Mrs.  Stanley  for  her  hospi 
tality  and  took  his  leave.  The  storm  came  rapidly  on. 
Clasping  her  hands  in  anguish,  Mrs.  Stanley  ex 
claimed,  "Oh,  where  can  he  be  now?  This  wild 
wind  seems  as  if  it  would  uproot  the  forest — should 
he  now  be  crossing  the  plain,  his  life  is  in  constant 
peril  from  some  falling  tree — at  all  events  his  expo 
sure  in  such  a  storm  as  this  will  prove  his  death.7' 
She  then  opened  a  small  trunk  which  contained 
changes  of  apparel  for  the  family,  and  selected  a 
complete  suit  for  Dr.  Stanley,  and  every  preparation 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  43 

was  made  for  his  comfort,  should  he  ever  return;  this 
done,  she  hurried  again  to  the  street  door  to  watch 
the  corning  of  her  husband.  The  clock  had  long  since 
told  one!  No  sound  was  in  the  silent  street  except  the 
noise  of  the  express;  whose  hoarse  voice  every  half 
hour,  broke  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night  The  scene 
across  the  bridge  was  one  of  thrilling  interest.  Lights 
moving  in  every  direction — the  bright  flashing  of  the 
sentinels'  arms  as  they  paced  back  and  forth,  on  their 
night-watch — the  hurried  bustling  air  of  those  at  work 
on,  and  near  the  bridge — the  lights  in  the  cantonment, 
where  all  seemed  confusion,  and  the  hum  of  voices 
coming  at  intervals  across  the  water  amid  the  howl 
ing  of  the  blast,  rendered  the  scene  still  more  exciting. 
The  dark  clouds  were  now  collecting  in  one  dense 
mass  over  the  little  village,  and  with  a  crash,  which 
appeared  to  shake  the  earth,  they  parted,  emitting  a 
sheet  of  flame,  which  seemed  to  wrap  the  heavens  in 
a  blaze.  Mrs.  Stanley  passed  her  hand  across  her 
eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  fearful  sight,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  rested  on  the  balustrade, — then  retiring  to  the 
parlour,  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  folding  her 
arms  across  her  breast,  raised  her  heart  in  prayer  to 
Him  "  who  rides  on  the  xvhirlwind,  and  directs  the 
storm" — while  poor  little  Polly,  her  gay  spirit  broken 
and  subdued,  sank  at  her  feet  and  clung  to  her  knees, 
as  if  for  protection.  Oh!  who  can  describe  her  feeling 
of  total  helplessness  and  desolation  at  that  moment? 
A  deathlike  silence  pervaded  the  empty  apartment, 
rendered  still  more  desolate  by  the  absence  of  its  usual 
comforts; — no  word  was  spoken — the  girl  was  awe 
struck.  The  soul  of  Mrs.  Stanley  was  raised  in  high 
and  holy  communion  with  her  Heavenly  Father. 
She  had  early  been  taught  by  sad  experience  the 
fleeting  nature  of  all  earthly  good,  and  that  mother 
whose  precepts  she  was  now  called  upon  to  practise, 
and  whose  example  she  was  striving  to  follow,  had 
taught  her  where  to  carry  her  burdens.  At  length 
the  storm  abated,  the  thunder  rolled  at  a  distance,  the 


44  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

lightning  still  flashed  across  the  heavens — but  it  had 
spent  its  fury;  the  spirit  of  the  storm  was  hushed,  and 
again  the  moon  came  forth  in  "cloudless  majesty!" 
It  was  past  two.  Again  the  agitated  wife  heard  the 
footfall  of  a  horse  in  the  direction  from  which  she 
expected  her  husband;  in  an  instant  she  was  at  the 
door, — again  she  strained  her  eyes  and  ears  to  catch 
the  sound,  or  sight,  of  his  familiar  form;  the  horseman 
advanced — her  heart  throbbed  nearly  to  bursting — it 
is,  it  must  be  he!  near  and  more  near  came  the  sound; 
at  length  the  horseman  rode  up  to  the  gate;  her  head 
grew  giddy;  her  sight  dim:  "My  husband!"  she  ex 
claimed — "  my  Margaret!"  was  the  reply,  and  she 
sank  lifeless  on  the  steps  of  the  piazza.  Dr.  Stanley 
ruslied  forward,  and  with  the  assistance  of  Polly,  car 
ried  his  fainting  wife  into  the  house;  by  means  of  the 
usual  remedies  she  was  soon  restored  to  life  and  con 
sciousness;  and  when  she  found  herself  once  more 
folded  to  the  bosom  of  her  husband,  she  felt  prepared 
to  brave  all  and  suffer  all.  The  attention  of  the  anx 
ious  wife  was  immediately  attracted  to  the  worn  and 
haggard  appearance  of  Dr.  Stanley,  and  his  apparel, 
from  which  the  water  was  dripping,  plainly  told  her 
he  had  been  exposed  to  all  the  violence  of  the  tem 
pest.  A  boiling  kettle,  which  her  forethought  had 
kept  in  readiness,  now  furnished  the  means  of  com 
fort  to  the  exhausted  invalid;  a  bowl  of  wine  whey, 
a  warm  bath  for  his  feet,  and  a  complete  change  of 
garments,  soon  renovated  and  enabled  him  to  explain 
to  his  wondering  wife,  the  cause  of  his  long  absence. 
His  weakness  was  extreme;  after  riding  six  miles  he 
found  himself  so  exhausted  he  could  ride  no  farther, 
and  was  obliged  to  stop.  Availing  himself  of  the  hos- 

O  I  C7 

pitality  of  a  kind  farmer,  whose  house  he  was  pass 
ing,  a  bed  was  prepared;  after  resting  half  an  hour, 
he  found  himself  ready  to  proceed  when  the  storm 
again  arose;  this  caused  another  delay;  he  waited  un 
til  its  violence  had  passed — then  mounting  his  horse 
rode  on  at  full  speed;  but  showers  succeeded  each 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  45 

other  in  rapid  succession,  accompanied  by  thun 
der  and  lightning,  and  when  he  reached  the  little 
hamlet  to  which  he  was  destined,  he  was  deluged 
with  rain.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he  succeeded  in 
his  mission.  The  persons  he  wished  to  see  were  gone; 
their  wives  could  not  act  without  the  sanction  of  their 
husbands.  His  mind  was  racked  with  anxiety;  there 
was  no  remedy,  however,  he  must  wait,  or  his  journey 
would  be  of  no  avail.  The  chain  of  communication 
was  kept  up  between  the  exiles  in  Peru  and  the  village 
of  Pittsburgh;  they  received  all  the  intelligence  as 
fast  as  man  and  horse  could  carry  it.  Of  course  Dr. 
Stanley  knew  the  enemy  had  pitched  his  tents  about 
four  miles  from  the  village,  and  would  probably  wait 
there  until  pleasant  weather.  It  was  late  in  the  even 
ing  before  his  business  was  completed,  and  he  had 
just  entered  upon  the  dreary  pine  plains,  when  the 
last  terrible  storm  came  on.  Such  was  his  little  his 
tory  of  mishaps.  Their  preparations  for  departure 
were  soon  made,  and  the  wagon  at  the  door,  which 
was  to  convey  them  to  their  beloved  children.  Sad 
were  the  feelings  of  these  parents  as  the  doors  of  their 
much  loved  home  closed  upon  them  perhaps  for  ever. 
It  had  been  the  scene  of  affliction,  it  had  also  been  the 
seat  of  domestic  happiness;  the  birthplace  of  their 
children,  it  had  witnessed  their  infant  sports,  and  was 
endeared  to  them  by  many  tender  associations, — its 
portals  had  now  closed  upon  them,  perhaps  for  the  last 
time;  the  probability  was,  from  its  relative  situation, 
it  might  take  fire  from  the  guns  of  our  own  fort.  Mrs. 
Stanley  brushed  the  tear  from  her  eye,  and  quietly 
seated  herself  in  the  wagon. 


46  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  house  clock  struck  three,  as  Dr.  Stanley  and 
his  wife,  with  Polly,  rode  out  of  the  yard.  At  half 
past  two,  Dr.  Stanley  on  his  return  from  Peru  had 
crossed  the  upper  bridge  as  usual — their  design  now 
was  to  cross  the  lower  one,  in  order  to  learn  the  coun 
tersign,  and  obtain  from  the  general  a  passport  through 
the  line  of  sentinels  stationed  on  their  route.  When 
they  reached  the  bridge,  they  found  it  uncovered;  two 
sentinels  advanced,  one  on  each  side  of  the  wagon, 
and  each  presenting  his  gun  demanded  the  counter 
sign.  What  was  to  be  done?  Dr.  Stanley  told  the 
"plain  unvarnished  tale"  of  villagers  unavoidably 
detained — and  was  informed  there  was  no  passing 
through  camp  that  night,  with  or  ivithout  the  coun 
tersign;  their  orders  were  peremptory — neither  could 
they  enter  camp  in  the  morning  without  the  magic 
word,  "/am  not  a  stranger,"  said  Dr.  Stanley,  "you 
must  know  me;  I  have  passed  all  hours  of  the  night 
unmolested  through  your  camp,  during  a  succession 
of  months  before  your  army  surgeons  came  on,  and 
at  all  hours  have  I  visited  the  fleet,  having  the  pro 
fessional  charge  of  that  also,  and  if  I  mistake  not, 
young  man,  you  have  assisted  me  in  handing  dress 
ings  to  bind  up  many  an  old  wound  received  in  battle, 
which  had  been  neglected  until  dressed  by  me  at 
yonder  fort.  Let  us  proceed,  my  good  fellow!" 
"Can't  help  you,  sir,"  was  the  laconic  reply,  "you 
pass  here  at  your  peril!"  They  rode  on  to  the  upper 
bridge,  which  Dr.  Stanley  had  crossed  without  hin 
drance,  when  he  returned  from  Peru  a  short  hour 
before, — when  lo!  that  bridge  was  taken  up  also,  a 
fence  across  the  road,  a  breastwork  erected,  and  the 
passage  completely  blocked  up.  A  faintness — a  sick- 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  47 

ness  of  the  heart  came  over  poor  Mrs.  Stanley — she 
wistfully  turned  her  face  to  her  husband  with  a  look 
of  inquiry:  "We.  must  go  ivest!"  said  he.  "Never!" 
said  the  half  distracted  mother;  "  who  is  to  protect  our 
babes?  should  the  enemy  penetrate  into  the  heart  of 
our  country,  they  may  be  torn  from  us  for  ever — "  I 
cannot  go  west,  I  must  go  south!"  "My  dear  Mar 
garet/'  said  the  agonized  husband,  "  quietly  submit  to 
this  necessity,  you  see  we  cannot  go  south;  in  a  few 
days  the  country  will  be  quiet,  and  then  we  will 
rejoin  the  children.  "  Is  it  necessary,  is  it  right,  my 
husbnnd,  that  we  should  separate  ourselves  from  those 
helpless  little  ones?  Oh!  let  us  make  one  more  effort, 
the  cause  is  holy,  God  will  aid  us!"  "My  dear  Mar 
garet,  resistance  is  vain;  we  only  expose  ourselves  to 
insult,  perhaps  danger,  by  contending  the  pass  with 
those  sentinels."  "Oh,  Dr.  Stanley!"  exclaimed  the 
half  frantic  mother,  "  I  entreat  you  to  make  one  more 
trial:  let  me  in  my  own  person  make  it;  they  will  not 
refuse  me.  General  Macomb  is  my  personal  friend, 
I  will  find  some  one  who  will  procure  me  a  sight  of 
the  general."  "  It  is  in  vain,  my  dear  Margaret,  to 
resist  the  authority  of  these  soldiers;  be  rational,  I 
entreat  you,  and  seek  safety  on  the  western  road." 
"  I  implore,  oh  my  husband,  by  all  I  have  this  night 
suffered,  that  you  make  one  more  effort  to  cross  the 
lower  bridge!"  The  husband  gave  up  the  point,  and 
the  head  of  his  horse  was  again  turned  toward  the 
village.  When  they  arrived  at  the  bridge,  gray  dawn 
was  just  breaking,  and  the  scene  which  presented 
itself  was  truly  imposing.  The  lights  were  not  ex 
tinguished,  lanterns  were  flying  to  and  fro,  in  every 
direction,  the  string  pieces  of  the  bridge  bare,  every 
plank  gone!  the  rapid  motions  of  the  soldiers  engaged 
in  their  tasks;  the  glittering  of  firearms;  the  loud  clear 
tones  of  the  officers,  giving  direction,  nodding  plumes, 
and  burnished  swords,  and  "all  the  pomp  and  cir 
cumstance  of  war,"  so  new  to  Mrs.  Stanley,  caused 
her  heart  to  beat  violently.  She  strained  her  eyes  to 


48  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

discover  a  boat,  but  no!  there  was  no  boat  there. 
The  moment  the  wagon  arrived  at  the  top  of  the  hill 
above  the  bridge,  two  sentinels  sprang  forward  and 
opposed  their  passage  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
While  Dr.  Stanley  was  expostulating  with  the  sentinel 
on  one  side,  Mrs.  Stanley,  in  tones  that  would  have 
melted  a  heart  of  adamant,  entreated  the  one  on  the 
other,  that  he  would  suffer  them  to  proceed.  With 
the  gun  pointed  as  close  to  her  breast  as  it  could  be, 
without  touching  her,  he  refused.  "  Let  me  go,"  said 
she,  "and  obtain  audience  of  the  general!  I  can 
walk  the  string-pieces."  "Pass  at  your  peril,"  said 
the  fellow,  moving  his  weapon  as  if  about  to  plunge 
it  into  her  bosom;  it  did  not  touch  her,  and  she  feared 
it  not.  "I  entreat  you,  my  good  fellow,  call  the  offi 
cer  of  the  night!  I  must  see  him,"  said  the  unhappy 
lady,  raising  her  voice  in  agony;  "  I  beseech  you  let 
me  pass — I  can  walk  the  beams."  "  Pass  at  your 
peril!"  repeated  the  angry  sentinel.  As  the  bright 
steel  glanced  before  her  eyes  in  the  shadowy  light 
reflected  by  the  almost  expiring  lamps,  mingling  their 
fitful  rays  with  the  first  faint  streaks  of  morning,  she 
shuddered;  but  again  pleaded  that  he  would  call  the 
officer  of  the  night, — "  Do,  I  entreat — if  ye  are  men,  ye 
will  not  persist  in  this  refusal!  call  your  officer,  I  im 
plore  you!  or  let  me  pass  up  on  your  own  responsi 
bility,  to  my  helpless  unprotected  babes."  Again  the 
fellow,  probably  enjoying  her  distress,  made  a  feint 
with  his  gun, presenting  it  so  close  that  its  point  pressed 
against  her  mantle.  Although  trembling  she  shrunk 
not,  but  raising  her  voice  in  the  excitement  of  the  mo 
ment  exclaimed,  "I  must,  I  will  join  my  children; 
sheath  yonr  bayonet,"  said  she,  her  voice  still  rising; 
"  if  ye  have  wives,  or  children  of  your  own,  for  their 
sakes  let  me  pass!"  Still  the  bright  bayonet  flourished 
at  her  breast,  while  Dr.  Stanley  in  deep  altercation 
with  the  soldier  on  the  other  side,  had  not  observed 
the  close  contact  of  the  shining  weapon  with  the 
person  of  his  beloved  wife:  "  You  pass  not  here  with 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  49 

your  lives,"  said  the  sentinel,  again  menacing  the  de 
fenceless  woman.  '•  Let  me  get  out/'  she  shrieked, 
half  rising,  "let  me  make  my  way  to  General  Macornb; 
he  will  send  me  on  without  delay."  At  that  moment, 
an  officer  came  running  up  the  hill — "  Who  have  we 
here?  what  is  this?  down  with  that  weapon,  sirrah! 

What  lady  is  this?  what  Doctor?"     "  Lieut.  M !" 

exclaimed  Mrs.  Stanley,  every  feature  irradiated  with 
sudden  joy,  "do  you  not  know  me?"  "  Not  know  you; 
my  dear  madam!  and  is  this  Dr.  Stanley?  I  am  thank 
ful  I  am  stationed  here  this  night;  — pardon,  dear  ma 
dam  the  vigilance  of  rny  soldiers;  but  I  fear  I  cannot 
readily  pardon  them  myself  the  fright  they  have  given 
you — but  how  is  this?  why  are  you  here?  explain!" 
A  few  words  led  him  to  understand  the  position  of  the 
fugitives.  "  Have  patience,  Mrs.  Stanley,"  said  he, 
"you  shall  cross  the  bridge  in  a  few  moments."  He 
then  sprang  with  the  speed  of  lightning  down  the  hill, 
and  in  a  short  time  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Stanley  saw 
as  many  soldiers  as  could  work  to  advantage  laying 
planks  across  the  string-pieces.  In  a  few  minutes 

Lieut.  M returned,  and  bidding  Mrs.  Stanley  not 

to  be  alarmed  at  the  narrow  bridge,  (the  passage  was 
only  wide  enough  for  the  wagon  to  cross,)  he  volun 
teered  to  lead  the  horse  himself.  Polly  and  Dr. 
Stanley  alighted,  and  the  two  gentlemen  led  the  horse 
across  the  narrow  pass,  Mrs.  Stanley  keeping  her  seat 
in  the  wagon.  It  was  a  critical  operation,  but  the 
horse  was  kind  and  well  trained;  the  noble  animal 
stepped  as  carefully  and  as  proudly  as  if  he  knew  he 
was  performing  an  important  service  for  his  master. 

Arrived  at  the  extremity  of  the  bridge,  Lieut.  M 

said,  "You  are  now,  my  friends,  beyond  the  two  most 
important  lines  of  sentinels;  wait  a  few  moments,  1 
will  go  to  General  Macomb  and  get  you  a  pass  through 
camp.  Had  our  General  been  aware  of  Mrs.  Stan 
ley's  situation,  she  would  not  have  been  subjected  to 
such  fatigue  and  alarm."  He  returned  directly,  bring 
ing  with  him  a  passport.  Then  their  way  was  plain, 
4 


50  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

the  morning  gun  was  fired  just  as  they  left  behind 
them  the  last  line  of  sentinels,  and  Mrs.  Stanley 
uttered  a  sincere  and  heartfelt  "  thank  God,"  as  they 
cleared  the  cantonment.  The  sun  was  just  rising 
above  the  horizon,  as  they  left  camp,  and  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Stanley  beat  high  with  hope:— she  invoked 
blessings  on  the  head  of  the  young  officer  who  had  so 
nobly  assisted  them  in  that  hour  of  peril.  Should 
these  pages  ever  meet  his  eye,  he  will  have  the  plea 
sure  to  know  that  his  noble  exertions  in  the  cause  of 
humanity,  that  night,  will  ever  be  remembered  with 
gratitude. 

They  proceeded  on  their  way  with  lighter  hearts 
than  they  had  felt  for  many  hours.  Dr.  Stanley,  how 
ever,  was  almost  worn  out  by  his  exertions,  and  the 
feeble  frame  of  his  wife  seemed  ready  to  sink  with 
fatigue  and  anxiety.  They  accordingly  decided  to 
stop  arid  breakfast  with  a  friend,  about  half-way 
between  Plattsbnrgh  and  Peru,  their  place  of  desti 
nation;  wisely  judging  it  prudent  to  husband  their 
remaining  strength  to  meet  other  emergencies.  They 
were  warmly  welcomed  by  their  friends.  The  lady 
of  the  house  was  ill  of  a  fever.  Dr.  Stanley  was  their 
family  physician,  but  hearing  of  his  illness,  they  had 
not  sent  for  him:  at  this  time,  when  all  was  confusion, 
no  physician  could  be  had  in  whom  they  could  con 
fide.  The  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Stanley  seemed  like  messen 
gers  from  heaven!  On  finding  the  family  in  such  dis 
tress,  they  concluded  to  spend  a  few  hours,  which  the 
Doctor  devoted  to  the  care  of  the  sick  lady,  whose  life 
was  in  imminent  danger,  while  Mrs.  Stanley  essayed 
all  her  arts  of  consolation,  to  soothe  the  agitated  feel 
ings  of  her  amiable  young  friend,  who  was  trembling 
for  the  life  of  a  beloved  mother.  They  arrived  at  a 
critical  moment,  and  both  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Stan 
ley  have  often  since  felt  a  pleasure  in  reflecting  upon 
that  incidental  call,  which  proved  of  essential  service 
to  their  friends,  as  he  was,  no  doubt,  instrumental  in 
saving  the  life  of  Mrs. .  It  was  however,  neces- 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  51 

sary  that  they  should  join  their  children  as  soon  as 

possible,  and,  towards  evening  they   proceeded  to 
Pern. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  WILL  not  attempt  to  describe  the  meeting  between 
the  parents  and  children.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  when 
Mrs.  Stanley  found  herself  quietly  established  in  the 
rooms  which  her  husband  had  provided,  her  children 
in  health  and  spirits  sporting  around  her,  she  (for  the 
time)  forgot  all  the  sufferings  she  had  endured  since 
their  separation.  Her  heart  was  so  filled  with  grati 
tude  for  present  blessings,  that  there  was  no  room  for 
any  other  emotion.  Her  treasures  were  safe,  and  she 
was  happy!  They  were  all  once  more  united, — what 
greater  blessing  could  she  ask?  True,  by  the  fortune 
of  war,  their  little  property  might  be  destroyed — their 
home  reduced  to  ashes — but  her  husband,  her  child 
ren  were  restored,  and  as  she  folded  them  to  her 
bosom,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  on  each  glowing  cheek, 
and  listened  to  all  their  little  details  of  what  had 
occurred  to  them  during  their  separation,  she  was 
happy.  Alas!  what  short-sighted  beings  we  are! 
Before  Dr.  Stanley  retired  for  the  night,  he  manifested 
symptoms  of  indisposition,  which  again  alarmed  his 
too  sensitive  wife.  He  refused  to  take  medicine,  and 
persisted  in  believing  that  a  good  night's  rest  would 
restore  him.  His  constitution  was  naturally  fine. 
He  had  seldom  been  out  of  health  since  their  mar 
riage,  enduring  all  the  fatigues  of  an  extensive  prac 
tice  in  medicine  and  surgery,  in  that  new  country, 
riding  night  and  day,  through  wind  and  storms,  with 
out  experiencing  the  least  ill  effects  from  the  exposure, 
and  often  when  engaged  in  the  duties  of  his  profes- 


52  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

sion  among  the  poor,  when  he  has  found  himself  at 
night  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  from  home,  and  his 
patient  not  in  a  situation  to  be  left,  had  he  thrown 
himself  upon  the  floor  of  some  wretched  log  hut,  so 
open  that  he  could  run  his  arm  through  the  planks: 
his  great  coat  performing  the  double  duties  of  bed 
and  blanket,  and  his  saddle  for  a  pillow,  slept  as 
soundly,  and  felt  as  well  as  if  he  had  slumbered  upon 
a  bed  of  down,  curtained  with  damask  hangings. 
Was  it  a  marvel  then,  that  this  tender  wife  should  be 
anxious  respecting  his  present  situation,  just  recover 
ing  as  he  was  from  a  long  and  violent  attack  of  fever? 
Upon  suddenly  awaking,  she  fancied  she  heard  him 
move,  and  gently  disengaging  herself  from  the  arms  of 
her  sleeping  boy,  she  stole  softly  into  his  room,  and 
found  him  in  a  burning  fever,  raving  wildly  of  the 
events  of  the  preceding  night,  apparently  unconscious 
where  he  was,  or  even  of  the  presence  of  his  wife.  In 
a  state  of  extreme  agitation,  Mrs.  Stanley  awakened 

the  hired  man  of  Mr.  G. to  go  for  a  doctor.     The 

man  seemed  intelligent,  and  she  made  inquiries  re 
specting  the  different  practitioners.  He  told  her  she 
would  be  obliged  to  take  whoever  she  could  get;  he 
fancied  there  would  be  no  choice  allowed  her;  there 
were  but  two  doctors  in  the  town,  one  of  them  was 
ill  of  a  fever,  the  other  had  gone  a  journey,  and  was 
not  expected  to  return  in  several  weeks.  A  faintness 
carne  over  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Stanley,  her  limbs  almost 
refused  their  support;  she  leaned  upon  the  window- 
sill  to  prevent  falling.  In  a  moment  the  weakness 
was  past,  and  she  prepared  for  exertion.  "  My  hus 
band  is  very  ill,"  said  she,  "  what  is  to  be  done? — 
assist  me  my  good  fellow,  and  a  liberal  reward  shall 
be  yours."  "  Indeed  marrn  I  dew  not  know,  I  guess 
that  are  young  man,  what  lives  with  Dr.  A. — he's 
larnin  the  Doctor's  trade, — may  be  he  knows  sum- 
mat  on  it  a  redy;  he's  been  larnin  this  two  mon  or 
more."  The  idea  of  placing  the  life  of  her  husband 
in  the  hands  of  an  ignorant  quack,  or  a  raw  young 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  53 

student,  made  her  shudder.  She  had  herself  been 
accustomed  to  sickness,  and  a  few  years  previous  to 
this  time,  during  the  prevalence  of  an  epidemic  (ty 
phus  fever)  had  proved  an  efficient  aid  to  her  hus 
band  in  his  extensive  practice.  She  now  thanked 
God  that  the  spirit  of  inquiry  into  the  why  and  where 
fore,  had  led  her  to  observe  something  of  the  minutiae 
of  his  general  practice.  He  was  a  very  sick  man!  — 
She  thought  his  life  in  danger;  how  could  she  take 
the  responsibility  in  so  critical  a  case?  the  patient  her 
own  husband — the  father  of  her  children. — "  I  will  see 
this  young  man,"  said  she  to  herself,  and  then  I  can 
better  judge  what  confidence  to  repose  in  him."  The 
young  student  of  medicine  came.  He  was  a  young 
man  of  a  fine  open  countenance,  pleasing  appearance, 
and  had  been  bred  a  Quaker,  although  he  had  dis 
missed  their  peculiarity  of  language.  There  was  a 
simplicity  of  manner,  and  absence  of  pretension  about 
this  young  man,  which  pleased  Mrs.  Stanley.  She 
stated  to  him  the  situation  of  her  husband,  and  led  the 
way  to  his  room;  his  fever  ran  high,  attended  with 
delirium;  the  brain  was  evidently  disordered — he 
recognised  no  one.  But  when  his  wife  approached 
his  bed-side,  there  was  a  softness  and  gentleness  in 
his  manner  that  plainly  told,  he  knew  a  friend  was 
near, — he  would  take  nothing  but  from  her  hand,  nor 
receive  the  assistance  of  any  other  person,  yet  he  did 
not  know  her!  Poor  Mrs.  Stanley!  "  what  do  you 
think  of  him,  sir?"  said  she,  in  a  tremulous  voice. — 
"  He  is  a  very  sick  man,"  was  the  brief  reply. 
"What  do  you  advise,  Doctor?"  "I  do  not  know, 
madam — I  am  not  competent  to  advise  in  so  critical 
a  case,  for  I  have  but  just  commenced  the  study  of 
medicine."  "God  bless  you,  my  dear  sir,  for  your 
candour  on  this  occasion.  I  now  feel  far  more  easy 
about  my  husband  than  I  should  do,  were  you  an 
arrogant,  self-sufficient  young  man,  professing  to  un 
derstand  what  you  know  nothing  about."  "  Dr. 
Stanley  is  certainly  very  ill;  I  wish  we  had  able 


54  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

counsel;  we  must  make  the  best  of  it,  however,  ma 
dam;  as  I  said,  I  will  assist  you  all  I  can,  but  I  am 
not  willing  to  take  the  responsibility."  "I  will  send 
to  Plattsburgh,  and  get  advice  if  possible;  if  a  physi 
cian  cannot  be  had,  the  responsibility  must  rest  here," 
said  Mrs.  Stanley,  placing  her  hand  upon  her  heart. 
"Oh!  God  of  mercy,"  she  silently  ejaculated,  "in 
spire  me  with  wisdom  to  direct,  courage  to  perform, 
and  strength  to  sustain  me  in  this  perilous  business! 
what  heavy  responsibilities  are  mine.  Oh,  should  I 
through  ignorance  administer  what  would  injure  his 
constitution,  perhaps  shorten  his  life,  or  should  I  omit 
what  is  necessary  to  perform,  the  same  results  will 
ensue — what  shall  I  do?  what  can  I  do?  I  will  send 
instantly  to  Plattsburgh."  She  stepped  to  the  kitchen, 
and  ordered  the  man  to  saddle  Dr.  Stanley's  horse  with 
all  speed:  while  this  was  doing,  she  sat  down  to  her 
desk  and  penned  a  note  to  a  friend  in  camp,  briefly 
stating  her  situation,  and  entreating  that  one  of  the 
army  doctors  might  be  sent  without  a  moment's  delay, 
and  with  a  beating  heart  she  waited  the  return  of  the 
messenger. 

Mrs.  Stanley  saw  with  agony  the  ravages  which 
fever  was  hourly  making  upon  the  frame  of  her  be 
loved  husband,  and  she  exerted  all  her  energies  to 
avert  the  dreadful  blow  which  threatened  her.  She 
had  a  painful  task  to  perform — that  of  communicating 
to  her  affectionate  children  the  alarming  situation  of 
their  father.  The  little  boy  was  too  young  to  realize 
the  evil  she  feared,  but  the  two  little  girls  possessed 
judgment  and  discretion  beyond  their  years.  Mrs. 
Stanley  had  been  peculiarly  situated  ever  since  her 
marriage.  When  she  settled  on  Lake  Champlain,  she 
beheld  herself  entirely  separated  from  every  member 
of  her  own  family;  one  dear  and  almost  idolized 
brother,  and  two  sisters,  were  all  that  death  had 
spared  of  a  numerous  family,  and  their  lot  was  cast 
in  a  distant  part  of  the  state.  Her  husband's  practice 
called  him  much  from  home,  and  as  her  own  habits 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  55 

were  domestic  and  retired,  she  found  herself  much 
alone.  She  was  a  devoted  mother,  and  from  the  first 
dawnings  of  reason  her  daughters  had  been  her  com 
panions.  She  had  entered  into  all  their  infantile 
sports,  listened  to  all  their  little  griefs,  and  identified 
herself  as  much  as  possible  with  them;  of  course  she 
won  their  confidence,  and  they  grew  up  as  her  com 
panions  and  friends.  These  two  lovely  children,  the 
one  eight,  the  other  six  years  old,  assumed  a  respon 
sibility  (for  it  was  self-imposed)  that  few  young  ladies 
of  twenty  feel  toward  a  feeble  mother.  They  felt  that 
her  happiness  was  in  their  keeping.  With  a  constitu 
tion  so  fragile,  that  it  seemed  as  if  one  rude  blast  of 
adversity  would  annihilate  her,  she  had  been  the  vic 
tim  of  sorrow  from  her  childhood.  It  was  theirs  to 
soothe  and  console;  if  the  tear  trembled  in  her  eye, 
Anna  would  sing  one  of  her  sweetest  songs;  if  her 
brow  was  clouded  with  care,  Louisa  had  a  pretty 
story  to  read.  Thus  hand  in  hand,  these  two  lovely, 
almost  angelic  little  beings,  watched  over  their  almost 
idolizing  mother.  It  would  have  warmed  the  heart 
of  a  stoic  to  have  witnessed  the  pure,  simple,  yet  child 
like  expedients  they  resorted  to,  in  order  to  enliven 
the  domestic  hearth.  They  were  too  young  to  analyze 
their  motives;  they  only  knew  she  was  their  dear,  their 
honoured  motiier,  who  looked  to  them  for  happiness; 
she  must  not  look  in  vain.  It  was  to  these  intellec 
tual,  almost  ethereal  little  beings,  that  Mrs.  Stanley 
was  about  to  communicate  the  most  mournful  tidings 
of  their  father's  illness.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
the  scene  that  ensued.  At  first  their  grief  knew  no 
bounds,  but  when  told  that  she  looked  to  them  for 
consolation  in  this  hour  of  trial,  Anna,  smiling  through 
her  tears,  threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms,  say 
ing,  "dear  mamma,  you  shall  not  be  disappointed  in 
us;  if  we  lose  papa,  we  must  all  love  each  other  the 
more;"  while  Louisa  sat  immovable  as  a  statue,  her 
hands  folded  across  her  little  heart,  and  her  full  dark 
eye  fixed  on  vacancy.  "  Louisa,  my  darling,"  said 


56  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

the  agonized  mother,  "speak  to  me,  dearest;  have  you 
no  word — no  comfort  for  mamma?"  The  little  crea 
ture's  deep  convulsive  sobs  spoke  the  anguish  of  her 
heart.  "  Lilly,  dearest  Lilly — speak  to  mamma — be 
calm,  my  love."  "I  am,  I  will  be  calm;"  and  she  looked 
so  piteously  in  her  mother's  face,  while  little  Anna 
was  constantly  soothing  and  caressing  her.  "And 
must  papa  die?"  she  at  last  articulated.  "  Oh!  Anna, 
mamma  will  be  a  widow  then,  and  shall  not  we  be 
orphans?  does  not  that  mean  orphans,  to  lose  our 
papa?"  "Yes,  dear  sister, "sobbed  Anna, "we  shall  be 
almost  orphans,  we  shall  have  mamma."  "Oh  Anna, 
it  is  dreadful!"  and  again  she  sobbed  almost  convul 
sively.  The  strong,  deep  feelings  of  the  younger  child 
almost  suffocated  her,  while  the  not  less  sensitive,  but 
more  buoyant  spirits  of  Anna  rebounded.  Although 
a  babe  in  years,  she  seemed  at  once  endowed  with 
the  discretion  of  a  woman.  The  peculiar  circum 
stances  in  which  they  were  placed,  drew  forth  traits 
of  character  which  surprised  and  gladdened  the  heart 
of  the  mourning  mother.  Every  plan  Anna  could 
devise,  to  amuse  her  little  brother  and  sister,  she  prac 
tised.  She  unpacked  their  little  books,  played  school, 
instituted  herself  their  teacher,  and  kept  good  order, 
that  her  mother  might  be  relieved  from  the  task  of 
amusing  them. 

Mrs.  Stanley's  patience  was  sorely  tried  before  her 
messenger  returned;  at  last  he  came,  but  no  success. 
There  was  no  doctor  in  the  town,  and  no  one  was 
permitted  to  leave  camp;  and  this  afflicted  lady  must 
be  guided  in  this  dreadful  strait  by  her  own  weak 
judgment. 

The  delirium  of  Dr.  Stanley  continued  for  several 
hours — when  a  deathlike  stupor  succeeded,  attended 
by  an  inflammation  upon  the  bowels,  which  it  was 
feared  would  end  in  mortification.  Many  of  the  most 
respectable  inhabitants  of  Plattsburgh  had  sought 
refuge  in  this  little  hamlet,  and  it  was  some  consola 
tion  to  see  familiar  faces,  and  to  know  that  many  of 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  57 

her  dear  neighbours  were  near;  yet  every  family  had 
its  own  cares. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  chain  of  intelligence  was  kept  up  between 
Pittsburgh  and  Peru.  Couriers  were  constantly 
riding  back  and  forth  with  correct  information.  From 
the  sixth  until  the  eleventh,  (the  morning  of  the  battle,) 
there  was  occasional  skirmishing  between  the  advance 
guards  of  the  enemy  and  the  Vermont  volunteers, 
and  New  York  militia.  As  is  usually  the  case  on 
such  occasions,  false  alarms,  and  false  reports  were 
circulated  by  mischievous  idlers  who  enjoyed  the 
panic,  riding  furiously  back  and  forth  spreading  terror 
all  around,  by  rumors  of  farm  houses  burnt  to  ashes, 
and  whole  families  massacred  by  the  Indians,  who 
were  let  loose  to  do  their  pleasure  upon  the  peaceable 
inhabitants.  These  reports  annoyed  Mrs.  Stanley, 
by  creating  alarm  in  the  minds  of  those  with  whom 
she  was  associated.  She  knew  herself,  that  there  was 
no  credit  to  be  given  them,  and  that  the  courier  would 
soon  arrive  with  the  truth.  Night  and  day  she 
watched  by  the  couch  of  her  suffering  husband. 
Every  prescription  was  made  by  herself;  her  medical 
friend  merely  acquiescing  in  her  views,  and  ending 
all  his  remarks  by  wishing  they  had  able  counsel. 
Mrs.  Stanley  trembled  as  the  conviction  forced  itself 
upon  her  mind,  that  every  thing  rested  upon  her  own 
judgment;  a  sacred  solemnity  pervaded  her  naturally 
cheerful  mind;  she  had  high  and  holy  duties  to  per 
form.  Her  husband's  life  depended  upon  her  judi 
cious  management;  an  indiscretion  on  her  part,  which 
might  arise  from  want  of  medical  knowledge,  would 
deprive  herself  and  children  of  their  dearest  earthly 


58  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

friend.  She  knew  that  all  depended  upon  her  own 
self-possession.  When  her  feelings  amounted  almost 
to  agony,  then  would  she  close  the  door  of  her  own 
little  private  room,  and  cast  her  burdens  upon  Him 
who  was  able  to  sustain  them.  She  knew  in  whom 
she  trusted — she  rested  on  the  promises  of  her  God. 

The  exertions,  both  mental  and  physical,  of  this 
feeble  woman  were  almost  super-human.  There 
were  times  when  she  felt  herself  sinking  under  the 
accumulated  load  of  anxiety  and  fatigue.  She  saw 
her  husband  about  to  be  torn  from  her  for  ever,  at  a 
time  when  his  protection  was  necessary  to  their  very 
existence  as  a  family.  Her  mind  reverted  to  that' 
period,  when  a  young  and  happy  bride,  she  felt,  that 
with  him  she  could  brave  every  extreme  of  danger 
and  privation:  to  the  hour,  when  a  mother's  love  first 
filled  her  heart,  and  a  parent's  responsibilities  were 
shared  by  the  happy  father.  That  father  now  lay 
before  her  unconscious  of  all  her  love,  and  all  her  woe. 
The  lisping  tones  of  his  only  son  passed  unheeded  by 
him,  and  the  tears  of  his  idolized  little  daughters  wet 
his  face  without  recognition.  "Oh  speak  to  me,  papa!'' 
said  the  gentle  Anna,  as  she  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  sobbed  violently. 

The  heart  of  Louisa  seemed  bursting  with  sorrow; 
as  she  passed  her  little  hand  across  his  unconscious 
brow,  a  cold  shivering  seized  her.  There  was  some 
thing  awful,  to  the  mind  of  this  child,  in  the  change 
which  a  few  days  had  wrought  in  that  loved  visage! 
Nothing  disturbed  him  now! — there  he  lay — senseless 
— almost  motionless — his  eyes  half  closed,  lips  black 
and  parched,  his  cheek  flushed  with  the  intense  heat 
of  fever  which  was  scorching,  his  vitals,  while  his 
wife,  whose  countenance  portrayed  the  keenest  an 
guish,  was  constantly  employed  in  administering  such 
antidotes  as  the  united  judgment  of  the  two  novices 
in  the  healing  art  directed,  to  arrest  the  alarming 
symptoms  which  had  taken  place  within  a  few  hours. 
The  good  people  with  whom  they  stayed,  and  indeed 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  59 

the  whole  neighbourhood  (who  were  of  that  sect  de 
nominated  Quakers)  manifested  the  greatest  kindness 
and  sympathy  for  the  situation  of  the  family.  Daily 
offers  of  assistance,  in  the  way  of  nursing,  and  sitting 
up  at  night  with  a  sick  man,  were  made,  and  as  they 
viewed  the  pale  cheek,  and  grief-worn  face  of  Mrs. 
Stanley,  and  witnessed  her  unwearied  devotion  to  her 
husband,  they  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  in  offices 
of  kindness.  There  were  also  two  young  ladies,  Miss 

Olivia  and  Martha  R ,  exiles  like  herself,  staying 

in  the  same  house,  from  whom  she  received  almost 
sisterly  attentions.  Interesting  young  creatures  they 
were,  but  where  their  lot  has  since  been  cast,  I  know 
not, — should  they  still  live,  they  will  be  happy  to 
know  that  their  disinterested  kindness  to  that  afflicted 
family,  to  those  sweet  and  interesting  children,  who 
are  now  angels  in  heaven,  will  ever  be  remembered 
by  that  bereaved  lady  with  heartfelt  gratitude. 

Poor  Mrs.  Stanley  scarcely  left  the  bedside  of  her 
apparently  dying  husband,  night  or  day,  except  at  the 
earnest  entreaty  of  her  little  daughters  joined  by  the 
young  ladies,  who  implored  her  for  her  children's 
sake,  not  to  destroy  her  own  life  by  such  constant 
watching.  There  she  sat — his  burning  hand  pressed 
within  her  own,  her  face  and  lip  as  pale  as  monu 
mental  marble,  the  gaze  of  her  dark  hazel  eye  im 
movably  fixed  on  those  loved  features,  which  to  her 
excited  mind  were  already  settling  for  the  grave. 

There  were,  as  I  have  before  observed,  constant 
skirmishes  between  our  rnilitia  and  the  advance  guards 
of  the  British.  It  was  evidently  the  policy  of  the 
besiegers  to  make  a  simultaneous  attack  by  land  and 
water:  but  they  were  detained  by  the  tardy  move 
ments  of  their  fleet.  Commodore  M'Donough  had 
chosen  a  favourable  position  to  meet  their  fire;  his 
fleet  being  moored  just  round  the  point,  in  Cumber 
land  Bay,  which  position  he  resolved  no  ruse  of 
the  enemy  should  induce  him  to  abandon.  General 
Macomb  had  been  in  hourly  expectation  of  an  en- 


60  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

gagernent  since  the  first  of  September.  The  delibera 
tion  with  which  the  besiegers  advanced,  while  it  had 
excited  surprise,  gave  our  brave  officers  time  to  ma 
ture  their-  plans,  and  strengthen  and  complete  their 
defences — their  block-houses  were  rendered  more 
secure,  their  fortifications  doubly  fortified,  new  bat 
teries  were  erected,  impediments  thrown  in  the  pas 
sage  of  the  enemy,  and  now,  when  their  movements 
made  it  evident  that  they  were  about  to  attack  the 
fort,  the  brave  Macomb  found  himself  ready  to  receive 
them.  It  was  the  determined  resolve  of  the  magnani 
mous  little  band  who  threw  themselves  into  that  fort 
to  defend  it  to  the  last  extremity — to  conquer,  or  die! 
They  had  prepared  matches  to  blow  up  the  fort  in 
case  defeat  was  inevitable,  nobly  resolving,  not  to 
give  the  foe  the  advantage  of  that  important  post  with 
all  its  arms  and  stores,  which  had  been  secured  within 
its  walls.  The  superiority  of  the  British  forces  was 
so  great,  that  it  was  generally  thought  they  would 
reduce  both  the  fort  and  fleet,  and  penetrate  by  land 
and  water  into  the  heart  of  the  country.  Many  brave 
hearts,  which  entered  these  walls,  mentally  bade  adieu 
to  wife  and  children,  parents  and  friends,  and  all  the 
tender  ties  which  bound  them  to  life,  resolving  to  sus 
tain  the  siege,  repel  the  enemy,  or  perish  in  the  ruins 
of  the  fort. 

It  would  be  vain  for  me  to  attempt  a  description 
of  the  little  group,  assembled  in  the  chamber  of  the 
now  apparently  dying  man,  on  the  morning  of  the 
10th  of  September.  A  material  change  had  taken 
place  in  his  symptoms  during  the  night,  and  when 
the  student  came  in  the  morning,  he  confirmed  the 
worst  fears  of  Mrs.  Stanley.  There  he  lay — nothing 
could  move  him  now — his  thick  hurried  respiration, 
difficulty  of  breathing,  sunken  features,  all,  every 
symptom  appeared  like  approaching  dissolution. 
There  sat  the  mourning  wife,  the  desolate  mother;  her 
sweet  Anna  on  her  knees  on  one  side,  partly  reclining 
on  her  mother's  lap;  Louisa  knelt  on  the  other,  an 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  61 

arm  of  each  encircling  her  waist;  the  big  tears  were 
chasing  each  other  down  the  cheeks  of  the  beautiful 
Anna,  while  little  Louisa  buried  her  head  in  her 
mother's  lap,  almost  convulsed  with  the  sobs  she  was 
trying  to  suppress;  little  Charles  was  seated  on  Polly's 
lap,  in  silent  amazement  at  a  scene  so  new.  Poor 
Mrs.  Stanley,  encircled  in  the  arms  of  her  daughters, 
pale  as  a  snowdrift  and  almost  as  cold,  sat  calm  and 
motionless,  her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  closed,  uncon 
scious  of  the  animating  scenes  enacting  in  the  street 
under  her  window.  Her  soul  was  bowed  down  with 
its  weight  of  woe; — she  was  commending  the  spirit  of 
her  dying  husband  to  the  fountain  of  life,  to  the  Sa 
viour  of  sinners.  Silence,  like  the  silence  of  death, 
reigned  in  the  apartment; — nothing  but  the  low  sobs 
of  little  Louisa,  or  the  bursts  of  grief  which  Anna  had 
in  vain  endeavoured  to  control,  was  heard.  The  stu 
dent  was  unwearied  in  his  attentions  to  the  sick  man; 
his  kindness  sunk  deep  into  the  mourning  heart  of 
Mrs.  Stanley.  Every  thing  which  a  friend  could  do 
on  such  an  occasion  was  done  by  him;  his  frankness 
when  he  was  first  called,  had  won  her  esteem,  and 
his  generous  kindness  throughout  the  whole  of  that 
scene  of  affliction  demands  her  lasting  gratitude. 

The  loud  tramp  of  the  courier's  horse  now  broke 
upon  the  ear;  all  was  bustle  and  confusion,  as  he  pro 
claimed  his  intelligence  to  his  anxious  auditors.  "The 
enemy  had  struck  their  tents,  and  seemed  about  to 
commence  their  march.  An  attack  upon  the  fort  was 
hourly  expected.  How  much  depended  upon  the  fate 
of  that  battle!  Notwithstanding  her  own  private 
griefs,  Mrs.  Stanley  was  deeply  interested  in  the  re 
sult  of  the  war.  Proud  of  the  independence  of  her 
country,  her  young  heart  glowed  with  enthusiasm  as 
she  retraced  the  deeds  of  her  heroic  countrymen,  who 
a  few  years  since  had  fought  and  bled  to  obtain  that 
independence;  she  could  riot  brook  the  idea  of  sur 
render  now.  The  ensign  which  Washington  had 
planted  in  this  land  of  freemen,  must  never  bow  to  a 


62  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

foreign  power;  and  while  the  star-spangled  banner 
floated  from  the  mast  of  M'Donough,  and  the  princely 
eagle  waved  his  protecting  wings  over  Fort  Moreau, 
she  knew  her  loved  country  was  still  free,  and  her 
heart  was  raised  in  gratitude  and  thanksgiving,  to  that 
Power  who  had  fought  our  battles,  and  proclaimed 
us  independent. 

No  change  appeared  in  the  sick  man  for  many 
hours.  The  anxious  mother  feared  the  effects  of  such 
scenes  of  heart-breaking  grief  upon  the  minds  of  tier 
children,  and  was  gratified  when  Olivia  asked  them 
to  go  into  the  orchard;  with  some  difficulty  she  per 
suaded  them  to  go,  and  the  sad  wife  was  left  alone  in 
her  grief,  to  reflect  upon  the  helpless,  hopeless  situa 
tion  in  which  she  would  find  herself,  should  God  in 
his  wisdom  see  fit  to  remove  her  husband  at  this  time. 
The  hours  passed  heavily  on.  Mrs.  Stanley  was  fre 
quently  annoyed  by  idlers,  who  for  the  want  of  more 
profitable  employment,  were  interesting  themselves  in 
the  affairs  of  their  neighbours.  In  answer  to  their 
heartless  questions  "  what  will  you  do?"  and  "  what 
can  you  do,  if  our  army  should  retreat,  followed  by 
the  Indians?"  She  had  but  one  answer,  "I  have  no 
choice  left  me."  Night,  with  its  darkness  and  gloom, 
approached.  With  much  difficulty  the  little  girls  were 
prevailed  upon  to  retire  to  bed.  They  entreated  that 
they  might  be  permitted  to  share  their  mother's  vigils, 
but  upon  her  promise,  that  if  their  father  grew  worse, 
they  should  be  called,  they  kissed  her  good  night  and 

retired.     Young  Dr.  A came  to  sit  up  with  Dr. 

Stanley  during  the  night,  and  urged  the  lady  to  retire; 
nothing  could  induce  her  at  this  critical  moment  to 
leave  her  post;  of  course  both  remained.  Towards 
midnight  a  very  perceptible  change  took  place  in  the 
patient;  he  broke  out  in  a  profuse  perspiration;  in 
stead  of  the  short  hurried  breathing  which  had  so 
much  alarmed  her,  his  respiration  became  full  and 
free,  while  his  whole  appearance  denoted  a  peaceful 
slumber.  Mrs.  Stanley  watched  the  change  with  a 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  63 

beating  heart;  her  eyes  were  almost  blinded  by  the 
intensity  of  the  gaze  which  she  fixed  upon  him;  her 
head  grew  giddy,  and  she  came  near  fainting.  Dr. 

A was  alarmed  by  her  paleness,  and  gave  her 

lavender, — she  revived  to  a  state  of  agonizing  sus 
pense.  Dr.  A critically  watched  the  varying 

symptoms  of  the  patient,  and  told  Mrs.  Stanley  he 
thought  she  was  right  in  her  conjecture.  This,  then, 
was  the  crisis  of  the  fever;  and  they  hoped  much 
from  the  sweet  sleep  into  which  he  had  fallen.  Oh! 
who  that  has  never  been  placed  in  a  similar  situation, 
can  conceive  the  intense,  the  soul-harrowing  anxiety 
which  racked  the  heart  of  that  almost  despairing  wife. 
Not  a  motion,  not  a  breath  was  unobserved,  and  as 
she  wiped  the  large  drops  of  perspiration  from  his 
brow,  she  trembled  lest  his  small  remains  of  strength 
should  give  way  under  this  powerful  struggle  between 

nature  and  disease.     Dr.  A threw  himself  upon 

a  couch  which  had  been  prepared  for  the  purpose, 
and  now  slept.  Mrs.  Stanley  was  left  alone  with  her 
husband.  A  few  hours  before,  hope  was  extinct  in 
her  bosom,  and  though  her  soul  was  filled  with  an 
guish,  she  had  bowed  submissively  to  the  will  of  the 
Almighty.  Noiu,  a  ray,  a  faint  and  feeble  ray  of 
hope,  illuminated  her  mind,  but  it  had  deprived  her 
of  ail  her  self-possession,  all  her  composure.  Again 
her  own  fearful  responsibilities  rushed  upon  her  mind; 
the  dreadful  uncertainty;  the  supense;  the  fear  that 
her  own  inexperience  and  want  of  medical  know 
ledge,  might  cause  her  to  omit  something  which 
ought  to  be  done,  or  to  do  something  which  ought  not 
to  be  done.  The  life  of  a  fellow  creature  was  in  her 
hands;  that  fellow  creature  was  her  husband.  She 
stationed  herself  at  the  bedside,  where  she  could  watch 
the  most  minute  change  in  his  countenance,  now  so 
pale,  so  death-like — there  she  sat  in  her  desolation 
and  communed  with  her  own  heart.  Her  mind 
travelled  back  to  the  days  of  her  infancy,  childhood, 
and  youth!  Of  her  father  she  recollected  little;  that 


64  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

little,  however,  told  how  tenderly  she  had  been  be 
loved  by  him;  but  her  mother!  her  almost  idolized 
mother!  she  who  had  watched  over  her  infancy  with 
the  same  tender  care  which  she  herself  now  exercised 
towards  her  own  little  ones,  whose  bright  example 
had  proved  a  beacon  thus  far,  to  light  her  own  weary 
way — where  was  that  mother  now?  The  grave  had 
long  since  closed  over  her  mortal  remains,  but  her 
spirit!  had  it  deserted  her  child?  Oh  no!  she  felt  its 
influence  near,  and  around  her;  she  daily  held,  or 
fancied  she  held  high  and  holy  communion  with  her 
beatified  spirit.  During  her  childhood,  Margaret 
Stanley  had  almost  worshipped  her  mother,  and  since 
the  age  of  thirteen,  the  period  when  death  had  sepa 
rated  them,  in  every  emergency  had  appealed  to  that 
mother,  as  if  she  had  been  present  to  her  mortal  eye, 
and  fancied  an  answer  to  that  appeal  had  been  given; 
that  her  spirit  was  ever  near  to  watch  over,  guide, 
guard,  and  protect  her.  In  this  solemn  midnight  hour, 
when  the  husband  of  her  bosom,  now  her  only  pro 
tector,  lay,  as  it  were,  hovering  on  the  confines  of 
eternity,  she  felt  an  immediate  sense  of  her  mother's 
presence;  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  she 
stretched  forth  her  feeble,  wasted  arms,  as  if  to  catch 
the  bright  vision.  "  Oh  my  mother!  stay — let  not  thy 
pure  spirit  desert  thy  child;  impart  to  her  a  portion  of 
thine  own  fortitude  in  that  sad  hour,  when  my  sainted 
father  was  called  home  to  heaven,  and  left  thee  to 
buffet  the  storms  of  life  alone!  Let  thy  bright  ex 
ample  stimulate  me  to  perform  my  duty;  let  me 
exercise  thy  faith,  thy  patience,  thy  meekness  and 
submission!  Oh  my  mother!  let  thy  spirit  be  with 
and  sustain  me."  Her  feelings  were  wrought  up  to 
a  pitch  of  the  highest  excitement;  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  wept  long  and  violently,  and  her  overcharged 
heart  was  relieved.  It  was  near  morning;  Dr.  Stan 
ley  continued  to  sleep,  and  as  Mrs.  Stanley  wiped 
away  the  perspiration  which  streamed  from  his  face, 
she  observed  with  hope,  the  change  in  his  counte- 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  65 

nance.  The  pain-contracted  brow,  the  shut  teeth, 
frequently  grating  upon  each  other,  were  displaced 
for  slumbers  as  quiet  and  gentle  as  those  of  happy 
infancy.  His  brow  was  now  placid  and  calm;  peace 
had  stamped  its  impress  there,  and  his  own  benign 
;>mile  once  more  flitted  across  his  thin  pale  visage. 
'•  1  thank  thee,  oh  my  God,"  she  ejaculated,  as  while 
sponging  his  lips  with  soda  water,  she  marked  the 
change.  "  Shall  I  wake  him?"  murmured  she  to  her 
self,  "  he  has  slept  long  and  soundly;  this  apparently 
sweet  and  quiet  slumber  is  nature's  own  prescription, 
and  is  it  right  to  counteract  her  operations?  and  yet 
I  fear  he  sleeps  too  long;  what  shall  I  do?  he  does 
not  look  exhausted,  or  even  weary;  I  will  not  disturb 
him;"  and  again  she  seated  herself  at  his  bedside.  At 
length  he  slowly  opened  his  languid  eyelids,  and 
faintly  articulated,  "  Margaret!  my  own  Margaret!" 
Her  soul  trembled  on  her  lip,  and  seemed  about  to 
wing  its  flight  for  immortality;  in  vain  she  essayed  to 
reply;  a  trembling  seized  her;  she  caught  up  a  glass 
of  water,  drank  it,  and  felt  revived;  then  placing  her 
fingers  upon  his  lips,  motioned  him  to  be  calm.  He 
had  awakened  in  his  perfect  senses! 

Mrs.  Stanley  awakened  Dr.  A ,  who  evinced 

the  most  lively  joy  at  the  appearance  of  the  patient. 
Without  hesitation  he  pronounced  him  (according  to 
the  best  of  his  judgment)  convalescent!  It  was  now 

morning.     Dr.  A took  his  leave,  and  the  ever 

kind  Olivia  entered,  and  volunteered  her  services  as 
nurse,  while  Mrs.  Stanley  should  try  to  obtain  a  little 
sleep. 


66  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  HEAVY  weight  was  now  removed  from  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Stanley;  she  sank  into  a  refreshing  slumber 
from  which  she  was  aroused  by  the  caresses  of  her 
two  little  daughters,  who  came  with  a  summons  to 
breakfast,  and  to  inquire  after  dear  papa.  Oh!  with 
what  mingled  feelings  of  thankfulness  and  joy  she 
folded  the  little  creatures  to  her  heart:  and  Fidele, 
the  faithful  little  companion  of  their  infant  sports,  was 
not  now  forgotten.  The  affectionate  little  dog  had 
scarcely  been  noticed  by  his  mistress  since  her  mind 
had  been  so  distressed  about  his  master,  and  the  saga 
cious  brute  saw  at  once  that  now  he  might  venture 
to  caress  her,  and  be  rewarded  by  the  accustomed 
mark  of  her  favour,  a  pat  upon  the  head.  The  chil 
dren  and  the  dog  were  all  in  such  high  spirits,  that 
Mrs.  Stanley  was  obliged  to  call  them  to  order  as  they 
passed  out.  and  taking  a  child  in  each  hand,  leaving 
Anna  to  follow  with  Fidele,  they  looked  upon  the 
sick  man,  and  proceeded  to  the  breakfast-room.  Ex 
hausted  by  long  anxiety  and  constant  watching,  the 
nerves  of  Mrs.  Stanley  were  all  unstrung.  The 
morning  was  beautiful;  the  orchard  with  its  loaded 
trees,  the  green  grass,  the  blue  sky,  all  looked  so  in 
viting,  that  when  she  arose  from  the  table  she  pro 
ceeded  with  the  children  to  enjoy  for  a  few  moments 
its  refreshing  shade.  The  pure  morning  air,  the 
lowing  of  the  cattle,  the  music  of  the  birds,  the  hum 
ming  of  the  insects,  seemed  to  inspire  her  with  new 
life, — now  hope  was  again  sparkling  in  her  eye,  and 
dancing  in  her  soul.  The  hearts  of  the  little  group 
seemed  to  rebound  after  the  dreadful  pressure  under 
which  for  a  time  they  had  laboured.  Charles  was 
all  fun  and  frolic,  Fidele  was  gaily  tripping  forward, 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  67 

with  tail  curled,  and  ears  erect,  expressing  as  much 
joy  as  a  dog  could  express  that  he  was  once  more 
permitted  to  escort  his  indulgent  mistress  in  a  ramble. 
Mrs.  Stanley  cast  her  eyes  over  the  little  group,  and 
once  more  enjoyed  the  delightful  consciousness  of  a 
proud  and  happy  mother.  Suddenly  a  sound  like  the 
rumbling  of  distant  thunder  broke  upon  her  ear! 
Peal  succeeded  peal,  and  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke  rising 
in  the  direction  of  the  lake,  diffused  itself  over  the 
heavens.  Mrs.  Stanley  grew  pale,  her  whole  frame 
trembled — 'tis  the  fleet,  thought  she,  or  the  fort  is  on 
fire;  and  followed  by  the  children  she  hastened  to  the 
house.  After  giving  her  children  a  caution  not  to  dis 
turb  their  father,  to  whom  the  slightest  emotion  might 
prove  fatal,  they  entered  his  room.  He  had  been 
awake,  taken  a  little  nourishment,  and  again  fallen 
into  a  sweet  sleep.  All  now  was  bustle  and  confu 
sion.  The  cannonading  continued  without  intermis 
sion,  and  the  whole  surrounding  atmosphere  was  hazy 
with  the  smoke.  The  little  village,  upon  which  half 
an  hour  ago  the  sun  shone  so  clear  and  beautiful, 
seemed  enveloped  in  fog.  Riders  were  pouring  in 
with  intelligence.  Expresses  arrived  every  fifteen 
minutes,  reporting  the  progress  of  the  enemy;  contra 
dictory  statements  confused  the  minds  of  the  fugitives. 
One  moment  the  Americans  were  fighting  like  lions, 
determined  not  to  give  one  inch  of  ground,  and  almost 
in  the  same  moment,  our  retreating  troops  had  crossed 
Salmon  river,  and  as  they  crossed  had  torn  up  the 
bridge,  and  opposed  every  obstruction  they  could  in 
vent  to  impede  the  progress  of  the  enemy,  who,  bear 
ing  down  all  opposition,  were  spreading  desolation  in 
their  path.  A  large  body  of  Indians  followed  in  their 
rear,  with  permission  to  murder,  scalp,  and  burn. 
Whole  families  were  wantonly  massacred,  defenceless 
women  and  children  lay  bleeding  on  their  own  hearth 
stones.  The  little  village  of  Salmon  river  was  in 
flames,  and  the  whole  country  four  miles  north  ex 
hibited  one  wide  scene  of  ruin  and  desolation;  every 


68  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

farm-house  was  blazing  or  already  in  ashes.  These 
frightful  and  contradictory  reports  it  may  well  be 
imagined,  agitated  Mrs.  Stanley,  who,  seated  by  the 
bedside  of  her  husband,  her  children  clinging  around 
her,  quietly  awaited  her  fate.  The  "Union,"  for  so 
the  little  Quaker  village  to  which  the  inhabitants  of 
Plattsburgh  had  flown  for  safety,  was  called,  was 
situated  in  a  valley.  It  contained  twenty  or  thirty 
houses,  and  a  Friends'  meeting  house  which  was  buift 
on  the  hill  at  the  north  entrance.  One  straight  street 
ran  through  the  village,  the  houses  not  being  compact, 
as  a  farm  which  ran  back  was  generally  attached  to 
each  dwelling.  The  south  extremity  of  the  village 
terminated  at  the  foot  of  a  long  hill,  the  ascent  of 
which  measured  more  than  a  mile.  This  hill,  usually 
known  by  the  name  of  Hallock's  Hill,  commanded 
an  extensive  view  in  every  direction,  and  from  its 
summit  the  movements  of  the  fleet  could,  by  the  aid 
of  a  spy-glass,  be  plainly  discerned,  when  the  breeze 
dissipated  the  cloud  of  smoke  which  shrouded  the 
view.  The  street  was  filled  with  horses,  wagons,  and 
carriages  of  all  descriptions,  in  readiness  at  a  mo 
ment's  warning  to  fly  and  keep  before  the  enemy. 
Foot,  passengers,  helpless  women  and  children  of  all 
ages  and  sexes,  thronged  the  road,  who,  having  no 
means  of  conveyance,  and  alarmed  by  the  report  of 
Indians,  with  a  few  necessaries  tied  in  a  handkerchief, 
had  left  their  little  all  a  prey  to  the  marauding  sol 
diery.  Mrs.  Stanley  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
recognized  many  of  her  old  neighbours,  shawled  and 
bonneted,  seated  in  their  wagons  and  gigs,  only  wait 
ing  for  the  next  express  to  confirm  the  last  intelli 
gence  before  they  drove  off.  A  bow  of  recognition 
and  a  thoughtless  "where  is  your  wagon?  it  is  time 
you  was  ready,"  greeted  her  from  various  quarters. 
A  sudden  and  overwhelming  sense  of  her  own  utter 
helplessness  came  over  her — her  heart  was  full,  and 
she  turned  from  the  window  to  conceal  her  agitation. 
At  that  moment  the  voice  of  the  express  chained  her 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN   1814.  69 

to  the  spot — "  Our  troops  are  retreating,  all  is  confu 
sion,  they  are  flying  before  the  enemy  in  every  direc 
tion,  the  village  of  Salmon  River  is  in  ashes,  the 
enemy  has  crossed  the  river — he  will  penetrate  into 
the  heart  of  the  country  and  overrun,  it!"  As  he 
ceased,  a  loud  shout  from  the  populace  announced  it 
was  time  to  start — and  "  to  horse"  was  the  general 
cry! 

How  felt  the  heart  of  that  poor  lone  one,  at  that 
awful  moment?  Still,  pale,  and  almost  powerless,  she 
sank  upon  a  seat,  and  as  the  heavy  and  constant  roar 
of  the  cannon  came  booming  over  the  waters,  and 
reverberated  from  the  hills,  seeming  to  shake  the  firm 
foundations  of  the  earth,  she  cast  her  eye  upon  her 
husband  and  babes  in  speechless  agony.  The  report 
of  small  arms,  as  they  were  discharged  in  quick  suc 
cession,  confirmed  the  worst  fears  of  the  frightened 
fugitives,  and  they  hastened  to  put  a  greater  distance 
between  themselves  and  the  enemy,  whom  they  sup 
posed  was  at  hand.  Several  ladies  now  came  into 
Mrs.  Stanley's  room,  and  entreated  her  if  she  had  any 
regard  for  her  own  life  or  the  life  of  her  children,  to 
prepare  for  instant  flight.  "Do  not,  my  dear  madam," 
said  one,  "sacrifice  the  whole  family  for  the  sake  of 
one  member,  and  he  cannot  live  long  at  any  rate — dear 
Mrs.  Stanley  your  husband  is  dying,  and  can  you 
answer  it  to  your  conscience  to  expose  yourself  and 
these  children  to  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife, 
for  the  sake  of  one  who  is  now,  to  all  appearance,  just 
expiring?"  Mrs.  Stanley  pressed  her  hand  upon  her 
throbbing  temples,  and  pointed  to  the  bed  where  her 
apparently  dying  husband  lay;  she  was  understood. 
As  the  lady  turned  to  leave  her,  a  loud  shriek  from 
little  Charles  made  the  blood  curdle  in  her  veins; 
what  new  calamity  was  approaching?  The  child 
sprang  into  her  arms:  "  Oh  mamma,  let  us  go!  let  us 
go;  the  naughty  Indians  will  kill  us  all:  let  us  go!" 
At  the  scream  of  the  child  the  benevolent  Friend  (for 
she  was  one  of  that  sect)  again  turned  to  Mrs.  Stan- 


TO  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

ley  and  said,  "although  them  remain  thyself,  wilt  thou 
not,  my  friend,  permit  me  to  take  thy  children  with 
me?  I  will  treat  them  as  tenderly  as  if  they  were  my 
own;  the  separation  will  not  be  long;  I  will  keep 
before  the  enemy,  and  go  no  farther  than  prudence 
dictates,  in  order  to  do  so."  Mrs.  Stanley's  heart  was 
too  full  to  reply;  she  could  only  look  her  gratitude. 
She  soothed  the  fears  of  the  child,  and  extending  her 
arms  to  the  little  girls,  who  rushed  to  her  bosom — "  My 
children!*7  said  the  agitated  mother,  "I  cannot  make 
this  choice  for  you;  here  lies  your  sick  father;  if  I 
leave  him  even  for  an  hour,  he  dies;  if  I  stay  and 
nurse  him  he  may  get  well.  I  shall  never  leave  him! 
This  kind  lady  will  take  yon,  and  take  care  of  you 
until  the  siege  is  raised;  will  you  go?  or  do  you  pre 
fer  staying  with  papa  and  mamma?"  Louisa  with 
a  composed  and  firm  voice,  spoke  first:  "Mamma,  I 
will  never,  never  leave  you."  "Anna,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanley,  "  had  not  you  better  take  Charles  and  go?" 
"Dear  mamma,"  she  replied,  "do  not  send  us  from 
you."  "But  if  the  Indians  should  come,  my  child!" 
Fixing  her  speaking  eyes  upon  her  mother's  face, 
Anna  replied,  "Mamma,  God  is  here."  "Yes,  mam 
ma,"  rejoined  Louisa,  "did  you  not  tell  us  yesterday, 
that  God  was  everywhere!  and  that  he  could,  if  he 
chose,  turn  aside  the  tomahawk  of  the  Indians  as 
easily  as  he  can  keep  us  safe  during  the  thunder- 
shower?  Oh  mamma,  you  said  God  would  take  care 
of  us;  then  why  are  you  afraid?"  Mrs.  Stanley  was 
confounded;  her  mouth  was  shut;  self-condemned, 
she  looked  with  amazement  upon  the  young  and  con 
fiding  Christians,  and  as  she  again  folded  them  to  her 
bosom,  said,  "You  have  taught  me  a  lesson  of  faith, 
my  children,  which  I  shall  never  forget:  we  will  live 
and  die  together!"  "Oh,  Father  in  heaven,  I  thank 
thee  that  thou  hast  given  me  such  comforters  in  my 
extremity!  from  the  lips  of  these  sweet  babes  has  my 
want  of  faith  been  reproved.  Then  why  am  I  afraid? 
because  I  have  not  thy  faith,  thy  confiding  love,  my 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  71 

child!"  "  Lord,  I  believe;  help  thou  mine  unbelief," 
she  mentally  exclaimed.  Grateful  for  kindness  so  un 
expected,  so  unlocked  for  in  a  stranger,  Mrs.  Stanley 
again  attempted  to  express  her  thanks.  The  good 
lady  was  earnest  in  her  entreaties  that  she  would 
trust  the  children  to  her  care  until  after  the  siege  was 
raised.  "It  will  go  hard,"  said  the  generous  stranger, 
"'if  I  do  not  obtain  some  means  of  finding  out  where 
thou  art,  and  restoring  thy  children  to  thee."  A 
hasty  summons  to  the  wagon  called  this  kind  benevo 
lent  woman  away.  She  saw  Mrs.  Stanley  was  firm, 
and  ceased  her  importunity;  they  parted — and  never 
met  again. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MRS.  STANLEY  trembled  for  the  effects  of  this  con 
fusion  upon  her  husband,  although  he  manifested  no 
consciousness  that  any  thing  unusual  was  going  on. 
When  his  wife  asked  him  a  question  relating  to  any 
of  his  little  comforts,  he  would  languidly  open  his 
eyes,  and  reply  in  a  monosyllable  so  faintly,  that  she 
was  obliged  to  put  her  ear  down  close  to  his  face  to 
understand  him;  yet  she  knew  his  mind  no  longer 
wandered.  She  trembled  also  for  the  fate  of  her  little 
ones,  although  Louisa's  artless  reproof  constantly 
dwelt  upon  her  mind,  and  she  repeatedly  said  to  her 
self,  "yes,  God  is  everywhere!  and  he  will  protect 
the  lowest  of  his  creatures:"  yet  she  often  had  cause 
to  apply  that  exclamation  of  our  Saviour  to  herself — 
"Oh  ye  of  little  faith!"  Her  dread  of  the  savages 
was  great,  and  when  she  thought  of  the  tomahawk 
and  scalping-knife,  the  cold  perspiration  would  stand 
upon  her  brow,  and  she  would  tremble  as  if  in  an 
ague-fit. 


72  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  kind  Quakeress,  at  whose  house  Mrs.  Stanley 
was  now  staying,  had  often  told  her  that  no  emer 
gency  would  induce  her  to  leave  home;  conceive  then, 
the  surprise  of  the  poor  distressed  lady,  when  Mrs. 

G came  into  her  room  with  her  bonnet  and  gloves 

on.  "Well,  friend  Margaret,"  said  she,  "shall  I  bid 
David  get  thy  horse  and  wagon  for  thee?"  "Madam!" 
said  Mrs.  Stanley,  in  perfect  amazement.  She  re 
peated  the  question.  Mrs.  Stanley  said,  "  by  no 
means,  madam!"  The  good  woman  proceeded: 
"Margaret,  thou  must  fly  with  thy  neighbours,  and 
take  thy  children;  what  will  become  of  thee,  if  on 
finding  thyself  unprotected,  the  soldiers  should  insult 
thee,  or  if  the  Indians  should  come,  as  we  expect?" 
"Madam,  look  there!"  said  the  astonished  Mrs.  Stan 
ley,  casting  at  the  same  time  a  look  of  anguish  on  the 
bed,  where  her  apparently  dying  husband  was  lying. 
"Yes — yes,  it's  bad  enough;  but  David  will  be  here;  he 
will  give  him  drink,  and  a  spoonful  of  nourishment 
now  and  then,  and  it  may  be,  we  shall  come  back  to 
morrow."  Mrs.  Stanley  was  silent,  and  Mrs.  G 

probably  thought  she  was  deliberating,  and  pro 
ceeded:  "would'st  thou  bear  to  see  these  children 
murdered  and  mangled  before  thine  eyes?"  The  poor 
little  things  looked  pale  with  terror,  and  clung  close 
to  their  mother.  Mrs.  Stanley  felt  it  was  time  to  put 
an  end  to  this  scene,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  said  in 
as  firm  a  voice  as  she  could  command,  " I  cannot  go, 
madam."  "But  thou  wilt  listen  to  reason,  Margaret; 
true,  it  is  hard  to  leave  thy  husband,  but  what  canst 
thou  do  here  alone?"  "I  will  appeal  to  the  huma 
nity  of  the  British  officers;  they  will  shield  me  from 
insult;  they  are,  or  ought  to  be  gentlemen;  they  surely 
will  grant  me  the  protection  which  no  man  of  honour 
can  refuse  to  a  helpless  female!"  "'Margaret,  I  fear 
thou  art  trusting  to  poor  security;  do,  I  beg  of  thee, 
go!"  "Entreat  me  not!  there  is  my  answer,  madam," 
said  she  rising  and  pointing  to  her  husband;  "  I  can 
not  go!  God  has  left  rne  no  choice,  and  He  will  pro- 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  73 

tect  me!"  Mrs.  G extended  her  hand,  and  Mrs. 

Stanley  saw  the  trembling  in  her  eye.  "  Well,  if  thoti 
wilt  not  be  persuaded  for  thy  own  good,  I  must  bid 
thee  farewell,  and  may  God  help  thee!"  The  good 
man,  who  had  been  a  silent  listener  to  what  had 
passed,  now  stepped  forward,  and  said,  "  Fare  thee 
well  thou  lonely  one,  and  may  God  indeed  help  thee. 
I  fear  thou  wilt  greatly  need  it:"  and  shaking  her  hand 
affectionately,  they  left  the  room.  In  a  moment  more 
little  Charles  was  at  the  window,  watching  the  pro 
gress  of  the  receding  wagon,  which  was  taking  away 
uncle  and  aunty  G ,  as  he  always  called  them. 

Mrs.  Stanley  had  made  great  exertions  to  maintain 
her  composure  during  this  dialogue,  while  the  pale 
and  agitated  faces  of  the  children  added  to  her  distress. 
The  struggle  over,  she  sank  on  a  chair  exhausted  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  to  conceal  the  tears 
which  were  streaming  down  her  pale  and  grief-worn 
face;  Anna  and  Louisa  knelt  by  her  side;  Louisa's 
head  resting  on  her  Jap  while  Charles  continued  at  the 
window  to  see  the  bonny  horses  go,  child-like,  forget 
ting  in  the  raree-show,  his  own  individual  sorrows. 

Mrs.  Stanley  spoke  to  her  husband;  he  seemed 
sensible  of  her  attentions,  but  too  weak  to  open  his 
eyes:  she  put  a  tea-spoonful  of  beef-tea  into  his  mouth, 
which  revived  him,  and  he  faintly  said,  "  Margaret, 
1  am  a  very  sick  man!"  The  sound  of  his  voice 
thrilled  through  her  heart — she  had  so  long  listened 
to  the  ravings  of  delirium,  or  watched  over  him  as 
one,  the  sound  of  whose  voice  was  for  ever  hushed  in 
this  world,  that  every  accent,  though  feeble  as  the 
wailings  of  a  new-born  infant,  fell  like  soft  music  over 
her  soul.  He  was  certainly  better,  she  was  sure  of 
it.  Hope  now  filled  her  heart;  her  husband  was 
saved. 

Although  since  nine  o'clock  there  had  been  one  in 
cessant  explosion  of  cannon  from  the  fort  and  fleet,  he 
had  taken  no  notice  of  it;  but  now  as  the  sound  re 
verberated  from  the  hills,  arid  the  echoes  rolled  along. 


74  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  wildly  around  as  if  for 
the  first  time  conscious  that  something  unusual  was 
taking  place.  The  carriages  and  wagons  drove  ra 
pidly  on  towards  Hallock's  Hill.  When  Mrs.  Stanley 
saw  the  last  wagon,  which  contained  her  kind  land 
lady,  drive  away,  she  did  indeed  feel  that  she  was 
alone.  The  air  seemed  heavy  with  smoke,  and  the 
constant  bombardment  which  had  been  kept  up  two 
long  hours,  left  a  tenfold  impression  of  awe  and  solem 
nity  upon  her  mind,  as  the  noise  of  the  wagons  and 
the  hum  of  voices  ceased.  She  had  often  tried  to  as 
certain  whether  Dr.  Stanley  was  conscious  of  the 
events  which  were  going  on,  and  sometimes  thought 
he  was,  but  that  his  extreme  debility  prevented  a 
manifestation  of  his  feelings.  She  had  not  however, 
been  able  to  satisfy  herself  on  the  subject  until  within 
a  few  minutes;  she  was  now  convinced.  But  oh!  he 
was  so  feeble  it  would  require  months  of  unceasing 
care  to  restore  him,  if  he  ever  did  recover. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  feelings  of  that 
young  and  delicate  woman,  surrounded  by  her  three 
infant  children  and  sick  husband,  every  moment  ex 
pecting  the  entrance  of  a  hostile  army:  she,  the  only 
female  left  in  the  place,  except  little  Polly;  every  pos 
sible  insult  and  degradation  to  which  she  might  be 
exposed  had  been  set  in  frightful  array  before  her — 
timid  to  excess  by  nature,  she  seemed  to  be  sustained 
by  some  invisible  power:  her  mind  was  more  com 
posed  than  it  had  been  at  any  former  period  since  their 
flight  from  Plattsburgh.  Anna's  remark,  "  Mamma. 
God  is  here,"  followed  by  Louisa's  question, 
"Mamma,  if  God  is  here,  why  are  you  afraid?"  was 
ever  present  to  her  mind.  And  had  she  not,  above  all 
women,  reason  to  bless  God  for  the  manifestations  of  his 
protecting  care?  Had  she  not  been  within  the  last  few 
months  supported  under  trials  that  would  have  crushed 
almost  any  other  woman;  and  she  the  weakest,  the 
most  sensitive,  and  most  feeble  of  human  beings?  At 
times  when  reflecting  upon  her  various  dangers  and 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  75 

escapes,  in  her  enthusiasm  she  had  almost  fancied 
she  saw  the  arm  of  the  Almighty  stretched  out  to  save 
her.  What  but  his  Divine  interposition  could  have 
preserved  her,  when  a  few  months  before  she  had 
been  thrown  frem  a  carriage,  and  her  babe  killed? 
Why  was  she  saved?  She  had  held  her  child  in 
her  arms  until  the  violence  of  the  shock,  as  she  struck 
the  ground,  caused  her  arms  to  relax,  and  the  little 
creature  to  rebound  and  receive  its  death;  and  why 
was  she  spared?  She  felt  that  her  work  was  not  yet 
finished;  she  had  high  and  holy  duties  to  perform, 
which  in  due  time  would  be  revealed  to  her;  the  Al 
mighty  had  made  her  life  his  peculiar  care,  and  now 
she  awaited  the  manifestations  of  his  pleasure  towards 
her.  She  feared  not  for  her  own  life:  neither  did  she 
fear  abuse — she  was  under  the  protection  of  the  King 
of  kings,  and  who  should  dare  insult  her?  When 
this  strong  excitement  had  in  a  measure  subsided,  she 
began  to  reflect  upon  what  course  she  was  to  adopt 
in  case  the  British  came.  There  was  but  one  course 
for  her  to  pursue,  that  was,  calmly  and  quietly  to 
await  their  coming,  then,  as  soon  as  possible  seek  an 
interview  with  the  commander,  frankly  state  her  situa 
tion,  and  claim  his  protection.  This  course  held  out 
a  prospect  of  obtaining  medical  aid  for  her  husband; 
"who  knows,"  said  she,  clasping  her  hands  in  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  "who  knows  but  this  very 
calamity  may  be  the  means  which  God  has  appointed 
for  his  restoration  to  health?"  Again  the  firmness  of 
her  mind  was  shaken  as  she  reflected  upon  what 
would  probably  be  her  situation  should  the  com 
manding  officer  be  a  man  without  principle,  regard 
ing  neither  the  laws  of  God  or  society;  what  then 
would  become  of  her?  "Away  with  these  dreadful 
thoughts,"  said  she,  "  they  are  as  unprofitable  as  they 
are  unjust  and  ridiculous — my  cause  is  a  holy  one, 
and  I  shall  be  sustained.  That  man  does  not  exist 
who  is  base  enough  to  injure  a  helpless  woman,  who 
has  cast  herself  upon  his  protection — it  is  folly  to  suffer 


76  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

myself  to  be  agitated  in  this  way. — Anna,  Louisa, 
come  hither;  take  your  little  chairs  and  sit  by 
mamma:"  and  she  exerted  herself  to  get  up  and  main 
tain  a  conversation  on  cheerful  subjects,  anxious  to 
withdraw  the  minds  of  her  children  from  the  fearful 
picture  which  had  been  presented  in  such  glowing 
colours  half  an  hour  before.  Never  did  her  children 
seem  half  so  dear  or  look  half  so  lovely  as  they  had 
done  that  day — they  had  behaved  like  little  angels. 
Polly  stood  at  the  window  with  Charlie,  pointing  out 
the  bonny  horses,  as  he  called  them,  of  good  Mr. 

G .     The  little  fellow  was  in  high  spirits,  having 

forgotten  the  Indians,  the  knife,  and  all  that  alarmed 
him  a  few  minutes  before. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  noise  of  the  cannon  ceased,  and 
for  a  few  moments  the  stillness  of  death  succeeded  the 
Jong  continued  roar;  when  a  shout  which  seemed  to 
rend  the  air,  startled  and  appalled  Mrs.  Stanley.  She 
flew  to  the  window.  Toward  the  summit  of  the  long 
hill  as  far  as  the  eye  could  extend,  were  seen  wagons, 
gigs,  horsemen,  and  foot-passengers,  their  faces  again 
turned  toward  "  Zoar,"  the  city  of  refuge.  They  had 
halted  in  their  course,  and  the  shouts  of  "victory," 
"  victory  \o  the  American  fleet,"  rose  loudly  upon  the 
ear.  Dr.  Stanley  had  for  some  minutes  lain  so  still, 
so  motionless,  that  his  ever  watchful  wife  doubted 
whether  he  was  conscious  of  what  was  going  on, 
when  to  her  surprise,  as  the  shouts  of  victory  came 
louder  and  more  near,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  slowly 
raising  his  feeble  hand  for  the  first  time,  distinctly 
articulated,  "  for  this,  0  God,  I  thank  thee!"  and  ex 
hausted  by  the  effort,  again  sank  into  the  inanimate 
state  from  which  he  had  been  for  the  moment  aroused. 
Anna  and  Louisa,  aware  that  some  important  event 
had  taken  place,  not  knowing  which  party  had  gained 
the  victory,  flew  to  the  side  of  their  agitated  mother. 
"Oh  mamma,  what  is  it?"  "  Oh,  is  it  Indians?"  said 
Charlie,  the  bright  tear  glistening  in  his  little  eye. 
"  Oh  tell  us,  mamma,"  said  Louisa.  "  My  children," 


A  FEW  EVENTFUL  DAYS  IN  1814.  77 

said  Mrs.  Stanley,  "  we  are  saved;  the  Americans 
have  conquered;  give  praise  and  honour  and  glory 
where  it  is  due;  let  your  young  voices  be  raised  in 
gratitude  to  God,  who  has  fought  our  battles,  the  Om 
nipotent  Jehovah!"  It  is  impossible  to  describe  her 
emotions  at  that  moment.  Her  feelings  were  wrought 
up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm;  her  heart  was 
full  to  overflowing.  The  lion  of  England  is  now 
prostrate  before  the  eagle  of  America,  which  still 
spreads  its  protecting  wings  over  this  land  of  freemen. 
The  star-spangled  banner  still  waves  in  proud  defiance 
on  the  ramparts  of  the  fort,  and  the  fleet  of  our  own 
glorious  M'Donough  now  rides  victorious  on  the 
waves  of  Champlain.  These  were  her  reflections  as 
she  again  clasped  her  children  to  her  bosom,  and  ex 
claimed,  "Bless  the  Lord,  oh  my  children;  for  all  his 
mercies  bless  his  holy  name!"  Carriages  came  roll 
ing  back;  horses  prancing  as  if  they  themselves  par 
took  of  the  general  joy.  The  crowd  seemed  almost 
frantic.  Many  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  had  seen 
the  pride  of  England  bow  to  M'Donough's  standard. 
Poor  Mrs.  Stanley's  excitement  and  fatigue  had  been 
so  great,  that  she  was  completely  overcome;  she 
trembled  in  every  limb.  When  the  loud  voice  of  the 
express  again  claimed  her  attention,  all  was  confirmed, 
and  she  clasped  her  little  ones  by  turns  to  her  bosom 
in  ecstacy. 

Dr.  Stanley  slowly  recovered,  and  the  latter  end  of 
October  saw  her  little  group  assembled  around  their 
own  fireside,  and  a  happy  circle  they  formed,  al 
though  the  desolating  footsteps  of  an  invading  army 
had  stalked  around  their  dwelling;  although  the  house 
and  garden,  fruit  trees,  shrubs,  and  enclosures,  all 
presented  one  scene  of  ruin,  yet  still  they  were  a 
happy  group.  The  shelter,  the  bare,  shelter  of  their 
much  loved  home  remained.  The  husband  and  father 
was  restored.  The  sufferings  they  had  endured  had 


78  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

endeared  them  the  more  to  each  other,  and  although 
inconvenienced  by  their  losses,  their  hearts  were  too 
full  of  gratitude  for  present  blessings,  to  permit  them 
to  repine  at  the  calamities  which  they  could  not 
prevent. 


RUTH. 


THE  voice  of  wailing  sadly  rose 

Upon  the  midnight  air, 
The  palace  walls,  all  hung  with  black, 

Told  there  was  sorrow  there. 

For  in  that  princely  mansion  lay 

The  cold  remains  of  one 
Early  cut  off,  in  manhood's  prime, 

The  husband  arid  the  son 

Friends,  in  the  chamber  of  the  dead, 

Stand  silent,  in  dismay, 
While  hired  mourners  pour  their  wail 

O'er  the  unconscious  clay. 

Behold  the  melancholy  group 

Assembled  at  his  side; 
His  aged  mother  Naomi, 

And  Ruth,  his  princely  bride. 

Young  Chilion's  widow  weeping  stands 

Beside  the  fainting  Ruth, 
Essaying  every  tender  art 

Her  anguish'd  heart  to  soothe. 

She,  like  some  tender  drooping  flow'r 

Torn  by  the  blast  away, 
Upon  her  mother's  faithful  breast 

Poor  Ruth  in  anguish  lay. 


80  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Naomi  was  a  noble  dame, 

In  Bethlehem-Judah  born; 
The  bride  of  young  Elimelech 

In  life's  fair,  cloudless  morn. 

Not  cloudless  long!  the  tempest  rose, 

And  threatened  to  destroy 
The  fortunes  of  this  virtuous  pair, 

With  all  their  promised  joy. 

Pale  famine,  with  his  meagre  hand, 
Filled  every  heart  with  grief; 

Thousands  were  starving  in  the  land  — 
Where  shall  they  seek  relief? 

Beyond  proud  Jordan's  rolling  stream 

The  plains  of  Moab  lie: 
Its  fertile  valleys,  hills  and  groves 

Are  pleasant  to  the  eye. 

Israel  is  subject  to  the  king 
Who  conquered  in  his  might; 

And  would  not  Bethlehem's  suffering  sons 
Find  favour  in  his  sight? 

Naomi  meekly  bowed  her  head 

Beneath  the  painful  stroke; 
Then  raised  her  mild  and  tearful  eye, 

As  to  her  lord  she  spoke: 

"True — we  must  leave  our  native  land, 

And  all  we  hold  most  dear, 
And  seek  upon  a  foreign  strand 

The  bread  we  find  not  here. 

"  But  oh!  Elimilech,  my  lord, 
Thou  wilt  be  with  me  there; 

Mahlon  and  Chilion,  noble  sons, 
Our  exile  too  will  share. 


RUTH.  81 

"Why  should  Naomi  then  repine? 

The  God  of  Israel  reigns 
In  heathen  Moab's  fruitful  lands 

As  in  Judea's  plains." 

'Twas  on  a  bright  and*  sunny  morn, 

With  heavy  hearts  they  left 
The  much  loved  plains  of  Bethlehem, 

Of  hope  and  joy  bereft. 

They  bade  a  long  and  sad  farewell, 

WThile  fervently  they  pray 
That  Judah's  God  will  guide  their  march 

Upon  their  joyless  way. 

At  length  the  exiles  wound  their  path 

Around  the  city  wall, 
Naomi  rallied  all  her  strength 

Her  spirits  to  recall. 

And  Moab  opened  wide  his  gate 

A  welcome  to  bestow; 
That  lofty  step,  that  stately  port 

A  man  of  rank  doth  show. 

And  Naomi,  his  virtuous  wife, 

Her  gentleness  of  mien, 
Her  polished  manners  so  refined, 

Would  well  befit  a  queen. 

His  elegant,  accomplished  sons, 

So  beautiful  and  bold, 
Found  favour  in  King  Eglon's  eyes; 

With  lords  they  were  enrolled. 

Among  the  nobles  of  the  land 

They  grace  his  festive  board, 
They  share  the  honours  of  his  court, 
Which  freely  round  them  poured. 
6 


MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  monarch  gave  to  Mahlon's  arms 

His  peerless  daughter  Ruth; 
As  rich  in  virtue  as  in  charms 

In  modesty  and  truth. 

To  Chilion  he  a  noble  maid 

Of  royal  lineage  gave; 
The  beauteous  Orpah  loved  the  youth, 

For  he  was  good  and  brave. 

Naomi  blessed  her  father's  God 

For  all  his  mercies  shown 
To  her  and  all  her  exiled  house, 

When  strangers  and  alone. 

Alas!  how  short-lived  was  their  joy; 

The  blast  of  war  blew  shrill; 
The  sword  of  desolation  flew 

O'er  mountain,  dale  and  hill. 

The  mighty  Eglon  was  dethroned 
By  Ehud's  strength  and  power, 

And  death  and  carnage  hovered  round 
Each  battlement  and  tower. 

Elimelech — the  life  and  light 

Of  poor  Naomi's  eye  — 
And  Chilion,  beautiful  and  brave, 

Within  the  cold  grave  lie! 

Their  all  was  lost,  their  vast  estates 

Passed  into  stranger  hands, 
Their  lands,  their  jewels,  and  their  wealth, 

A  prey  to  ruffian  bands. 

Mahlon,  of  all  their  house,  was  left 

The  females  to  maintain, 
And  well  his  noble  nature  strove 

His  duties  to  sustain. 


RUTH. 

At  length  the  fatal  summons  came, 
And  Mahlon  too  must  die! 

Oh!  where  in  this  extremity 
Shall  poor  Naomi  fly? 

For  him  the  palace  walls  were  hung 

With  dark  and  sad  array; 
For  him  ascends  the  funeral  wail, 

O'er  this  his  lifeless  clay! 

And  Ruth,  the  lovely,  suffering  Ruth! 

Oh!  whither  shall  she  turn? 
Cold  is  that  bosom,  still  that  heart; 

She  must  forever  mourn! 

Naomi's  lofty  spirit  rose 

As  high  the  billows  roll, 
The  Rock  of  Ages  stayed  her  feet, 

Sustained  her  sinking  soul.- 

Poor  Ruth!  with  face  and  lip  as  pale 

As  Mahlon's  lifeless  clay, 
Upon  his  tender  mother's  lap 

Almost  as  lifeless  lay. 

"  Arise,  my  sweet,  my  gentle  Ruth," 

The  fond  Naomi  cried, 
"  Arise,  my  fair,  my  widow'd  love, 

My  Mahlon's  faithful  bride! 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  thus, 
My  bright  and  peerless  one; 

Live  to  support  this  aged  frame 
Till  my  sad  race  is  run!" 

Feebly  she  raised  her  drooping  head, 

To  hear  the  fond  appeal 
Of  the  dear  mother  of  her  lord, 

Then  at  her  feet  did  kneel; 


84  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Mother  of  Mahlon!  hear  my  vow, 
In  this  sad  presence  made  — 

To  thee  I'll  cling  through  weal  and  woe, 
Till  by  his  side  I'm  laid! 

"With  every  mem'ry  of  the  past 

Thy  image  is  replete, 
And  all  the  happy  hours  I've  spent 

In  our  once  loved  retreat: 

"  Oh!  never  will  those  days  return, 
For,  sealed  in  cheerless  night 

Are  the  familiar  forms  I  loved, 
And  banished  from  my  sight; 

"With  thee  I've  wept  in  cold  despair, 

Over  his  silent  bier; 
My  life  to  thee  I  now  devote 

Thy  future  days  to  cheer!" 

Fair  Orpah  marked  with  wondering  eyes 

Naomi's  bearing  high, 
And  marvelled  what  Almighty  power 

Suppress'd  the  heaving  sigh. 

This  high-soul'd  woman  stood  erect 

Amid  the  raging  storm, 
While  sorrow  rankled  in  a  heart 

With  generous  feelings  warm: 

Like  some  tall  tree  she  firmly  stands, 
Nor  bowed  beneath  the  blast; 

'Twas  hers  to  prop  that  falling  house 
Which  now  was  sinking  last. 

The  honours  of  their  ancient  name 

Must  be  revived  in  Ruth; 
Elimelech,  her  lord,  was  dead, 

And  both  her  sons  in  youth: 


RUTH.  85 

Their  lineage  now  became  extinct, 

Their  house  without  a  name: 
In  Judah,  Ruth  again  might  wed, 

And  thus  revive  their  fame. 

She  sat  beside  the  silent  bier 

Of  her  last,  cherished  one, 
Her  bosom  torn  with  anguish  keen, 

Her  thoughts  revealed  to  none: 

The  images  of  other  days 

Came  rushing  on  her  brain, 
Her  former  joys,  her  happy  home 

And  all  her  infant  train: 

In  fancy  then  she  view'd  each  form, 
Arid  heard  each  dear  loved  voice: 

"  I  will  return  to  Judah's  land, 
The  Lord  directs  my  choice! 

"And  when  the  last  sad  rites  are  paid 

To  my  beloved  son, 
I'll  set  my  face  tow'rd  Bethlehem; 

Great  God!  thy  will  be  done!" 

The  dust  to  the  cold  earth  consigned, 

A  mournful  train  is  found, 
Three  loaded  camels  ready  stand 

To  Bethlehem-Judah  bound. 

How  felt  the  damsels  as  they  pass'd 

That  noble  palace  gate? 
That  palace,  where  the  Princess  Ruth 

Once  sat  in  all  her  state? 

And  Orpah's  charms  unconscious  shone 

'Mid  countless  damsels  fair, 
A  host  of  nobles  in  her  train 

Contend  her  smiles  to  share. 


86  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Around  a  hillock's  grassy  side 
The  travellers  wound  their  way; 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
Shone  on  departing  day. 

The  mournful  cavalcade  drew  up 

Beneath  a  friendly  shade, 
While  they  prepared  their  simple  meal 

And  parching  thirst  allayed. 

The  scene  was  desolate  and  grand! 

The  Dead  Sea  lay  before 
All  sternly  dark,  and  motionless 

It  seemed  from  shore  to  shore. 

The  weeping  sisters  on  the  scene 

In  silent  sadness  gazed! 
Naomi,  with  a  mournful  smile 

Her  speaking  features  raised: 

"  My  daughters — lo!  observe  yon  sea 
Now  stretched  before  your  eye; 

Far,  far  beyond,  the  distant  hills 
Of  my  loved  Judah  lie: 

"My  home!  my  own,  my  dear  loved  home 

Do  I  behold  once  more! 
Again  descry  her  distant  hills 

And  view  old  Jordan's  shore? 

"  Lord,  thou  hast  heard  my  fervent  prayer, 

I  thank  thee,  oh  my  God! 
Though  smarting  still  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  thy  chastising  rod." 

No  marvel  the  young  strangers  shrunk 
From  the  cold,  cheerless  sight 

Presented  by  the  distant  glimpse 
In  sunset's  flickering  liirht: 


RUTH.  87 

They  turned,  and  with  a  deep  drawn  sigh 

Gazed  o'er  the  lovely  land 
Where  Moab  rose  in  all  her  pride 

With  vales  and  mountains  grand! 

The  silver  Arno's  glittering  waves 

Adorned  the  distant  scene, 
While  towers  and  temples  all  arose 

Lit  with  the  sun's  last  beam. 

"Return!"  the  sad  Naomi  cried, 

"  My  daughters,  oh!  return — 
This  selfish  sorrow  must  not  crush 

These  blossoms  in  their  germ!" 

Again  the  widowed  mother  prest 

Each  loved  one  to  her  heart, 
Again  she  kissed  their  fair  young  cheeks, 

And  wept  that  they  must  part. 

The  Princess  Ruth  in  anguish  hung 

Upon  her  aged  breast, 
While  the  sweet  Orpah's  flowing  tears 

No  longer  were  repressed. 

Then  Ruth, — "pray  suffer  us  to  go, 

And  oh!  forbid  it  not: 
We  long  to  visit  that  loved  land, 

That  ever  hallowed  spot, 

"  Where  our  dear  husband's  infant  eyes 

First  opened  on  the  light, 
And  gave  thy  fond  maternal  heart 

A  promise  fair  and  bright." 

In  all  the  dignity  of  grief 

The  mourning  mother  said, 
"  Go  back!  my  daughters,  oil!  return; 

In  me  all  hope  is  dead: 


88  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"No  future  husband  e'er  shall  bless 
These  widowed  arms  again, 

No  future  sons  again  shall  rise 
My  loved  ones  to  sustain. 

"  Go  back!  and  wed  some  noble  youth 
To  thine  own  house  allied, 

Pledge  him  thy  faithfulness  and  truth, 
And  flourish  at  his  side." 

Again  the  burning  tears  bedewed 

The  lovely  Orpah's  face, 
As,  turning  to  the  widowed  dame 

With  all  her  native  grace, 

Upon  that  ever  faithful  breast 
Her  beauteous  head  she  bowed, 

And  wending  towards  her  native  land 
She  wept  and  sobbed  aloud. 

How  looked  the  sweet  and  gentle  Ruth 
When  Orpah  moves  to  go? 

She  hangs  upon  Naomi's  neck 
And  fast  the  tear-drops  flow. 

"  Behold!  thy  sister  hath  gone  back, 

Thy  people  shall  rejoice; 
Go  thon,  dear  Ruth!  To  Israel's  God 

Thou  there  may'st  raise  thy  voice." 

"  Mother — dear  mother!  urge  me  not, 

I  cannot  leave  thee  now; 
To  follow  thee  through  future  life 

I've  made  a  solemn  vow; 

"  Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go, 
I'll  lodge  where  thou  dost  lie, 

Thy  people  shall  my  people  be, 
And  to  thy  God  I'll  cry: 


RUTH.  89 

"And  I  will  die  where  thoii  dost  die, 

And  buried  there  I'll  be; 
Witness  the  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth 

If  aught  part  thee  and  me." 

Naomi  raised  her  tearful  eyes 

Upon  Ruth's  beaming  face, 
And  there,  the  firm,  the  high  resolve 

With  rapture  she  could  trace: 

She  seized  her  fair  and  yielding  hand 

And  pressed  it  to  her  heart — 
"My  Mahlon's  bride,  my  own  sweet  Ruth, 

Oh!  may  we  never  part!" 

Arrived  at  Bethlehem,  who  shall  paint 

The  feelings  which  oppressed 
The  hearts  of  those  lone  wanderers 

As  strangers  round  them  press'd. 

"  Is  this  Naomi!  can  it  be?" 

The  aged  men  exclaim: 
"  Call  me  not  thus,  from  this  time  forth 

Shall  Mara  be  my  name! 

"  The  Lord  in  anger  hath  chastised, 

And  filled  my  cup  with  woe, 
I  drank  it  to  the  very  dregs, 

Though  it  did  overflow. 

"  I  went  out  full,  the  Lord  hath  caused 

Me  empty  to  return, 
Blighted  my  fondest,  dearest  hopes, 

And  made  my  soul  to  mourn!" 

The  gentle  partner  of  her  cares, 

The  timid,  trusting  Ruth 
Now  strove  by  all  her  soothing  arts 

To  show  her  love  and  truth. 


90  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  blasts  of  poverty  blew  keen 
Around  these  helpless  ones, 

Fortune  and  friends,  and  all  were  lost 
With  husband,  and  with  sons. 

'Twas  autumn,  and  the  harvest  fields 
Waved  rich  in  golden  grain, 

When  the  young  matron  hied  her  forth 
A  sustenance  to  gain. 

With  modest  step  and  downcast  eye, 
She  joined  the  reaper  throng, 

A  gleaner  in  those  very  fields 
Which  should  to  her  belong. 

With  eager  care  the  timid  maid 
Collects  each  scattered  grain, 

When  lo!  the  master  of  the  field 
Appears  amid  his  train. 

At  his  approach  all  hearts  beat  light, 
The  servants  loved  their  lord; 

And  every  man  with  pleasure  bowed 
To  catch  the  kindly  word. 

"  The  Lord  be  with  you,  faithful  ones," 
Burst  from  his  lips  revered; 

"  The  Lord  bless  Mee,"  was  the  response 
Which  this  good  master  cheered. 

His  stately  form  and  bearing  spoke 

A  man  of  high  descent, 
While  to  his  broad  and  lofty  brow 

The  fires  of  youth  were  lent: 

In  his  dark  intellectual  eye 
The  high  resolve  you  trace, 

While  pure  benevolence  diffused 
A  softness  o'er  his  face: 


RUTH.  91 

A  tunic  of  the  finest  wool, 

Of  bright  cerulean  blue, 
The  silken  girdle,  wrought  in  gold, 

And  flowers  of  crimson  hue: 

A  mantle  of  the  finest  web 

Which  Persia  could  bestow, 
Falling  in  soft  and  graceful  folds, 

The  man  of  rank  doth  show. 

Ruth's  dignified  and  modest  mien, 

Her  air,  so  full  of  grace, 
Filled  with  surprise  the  wondering  man. 

Who  stooped  to  view  her  face: 

He  marvelled  at  the  queenly  form, 

So  delicate  and  fair; 
That  downcast  eye,  so  pure  its  beam, 

Well  nigh  transfixed  him  there. 

He,  wondering,  to  the  reapers  turned, 

And  asked  the  maiden's  name: 
«  The  Moabitish  damsel  Ruth, 

Who  with  Naomi  came; 

"  She  asked  permission  but  to  glean 

Among  the  sheaves  to-day, 
This  granted,  she  from  early  morn 

Has  toiled  without  delay." 

A  shade  passed  suddenly  across 

His  broad  and  manly  brow — 
"  Her  husband  was  my  nearest  kin, 

/must  protect  her  now." 

His  generous  bosom  swelled  with  pride 

As  he  the  maid  address'd — 
"Mark  me,  my  daughter!  here  abide, 

This  be  thy  place  of  rest; 


92  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Go  not  into  another  field 
To  meet  contempt  and  scorn, 

A  something  whispers  to  my  heart 
Thou  wert  not  meanly  born; 

"Go  not  into  another  field, 
Glean  near  my  maidens,  now, 

For  I  have  charged  my  reaper  train 
Thy  labour  to  allow. 

"When  thou  art  weary  with  thy  toil, 

Here's  water  to  revive 
Thy  fainting  heart,  yet  all  too  young 

With  the  cold  world  to  strive." 

The  princess  lowly  bowed  her  head, 

And  kneeling  at  his  feet, 
With  the  pure  blush  of  innocence, 

Thank'd  him,  in  accents  sweet: 

"My  gracious  lord!  why  is  it  thus 

Thy  favour  I  have  found? 
I  am  a  stranger  in  the  land, 

On  mournful  mission  bound." 

With  strong  emotion  ill  concealed, 

"A  stranger!"  Boaz  cried, 
"  Have  I  not  heard  the  well  earned  praise 

Of  Mahlon's  virtuous  bride? 

"Thou  hast  sustained  the  feeble  steps, 
Of  one  we  long  have  loved, 

The  mother  of  thy  noble  lord; 
Thy  virtue  hath  been  proved. 

"  The  Lord  shall  recompense  thy  work, 

A  full  reward  be  thine, 
The  favour  of  the  King  of  kings, 

Protection  all  divine! 


RUTH.  93 

"  The  blessings  of  the  Lord  shall  rest 

Upon  thy  youthful  head, 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  wings 

Thou  shall  securely  tread!" 

In  modest  accents  Ruth  replied — 

"  Oh,  thou  most  noble  lord! 
Much  consolation  have  I  found 

From  every  gentle  word, 

"  Which  in  thy  goodness  thou  hast  said 

To  a  lone  widowed  one, 
Whose  only  treasure  is  a  name 

As  yet,  defamed  by  none." 

He  kindly  bade  her  join  his  group 

Of  reapers  at  their  meals, 
Eat  of  their  bread,  drink  of  their  cup, 

Arid  glean  within  their  fields. 

And  when  she  left  their  harvest  field 

He  gave  his  young  men  charge 
To  drop  some  sheaves  upon  the  ground, 

And  let  her  glean  at  large. 

She  toiled  till  evening  in  the  field, 

And  then  beat  out  the  grain; 
An  ephah,  sure,  of  barley  corn 

Her  basket  did  contain! 

"  Where  hast  thou  gleaned  to-day,  my  love, 

Whose  favour  didst  thou  gain? 
Blessings  upon  his  noble  head, 

Thou  hast  not  toiled  in  vain." 

"His  name  is  Boaz" — said  the  maid. 

The  matron,  in  surprise, 
Clasped  both  her  pale  and  withered  hands, 

And  raised  her  streaming  eyes. 


94  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  The  Lord  of  Israel  be  praised! 

Whose  loving  kindness  still 
Doth  rest  upon  our  falling  house; 

Let  us  perform  his  will! 

"  This  mighty  man  in  Bethlehem, 

This  Israelite  indeed, 
Is  kinsman  to  Elimelech, 

And  proves  a  friend  in  need!" 

"  Mother!"  said  Ruth,  "  he  bade  me  keep, 
Throughout  the  harvest  moon, 

Fast  by  his  maidens  and  young  men, 
And  glean  till  all  was  done." 

"I  charge  thee,  daughter,  to  abide 

By  this  his  known  desire; 
Attend  his  maidens  in  the  toil, 

And  do  what  they  require. 

11 1  would  not  have  him  see  thee  glean 

In  any  other  field; 
For  he  has  given  his  vassals  charge 

Thy  innocence  to  shield." 

'Twas  eve — and  seated  at  her  board, 

Naomi  thus  began: 
"  Thy  beauty  and  thy  innocence 

Attract  this  virtuous  man. 

"  This  night  he  winnows  barley 

Upon  the  threshing  floor. 
Go,  wash  thy  face,  anoint  thy  head, 

And  slip  within  the  door. 

"  He  is  our  near  and  valued  kin, 

He  will  admit  our  claim; 
Be  wise,  and  steal  the  door  within, 

Let  no  one  know  your  aim. 


RUTH.  95 

"  And  it  shall  be,  when  he  lies  down, 

That  thou  the  spot  shalt  mark; 
Go,  raise  the  covering  from  his  feet, 

And  lie  down  in  the  dark. 

"  And  when  he  wakens,  dearest  Ruth, 

And  finds  to  his  surprise 
His  kinsman's  widow  at  his  feet, 

He  will  at  once  arise. 

"Our  fallen  fortunes  he'll  retrieve, 

Restore  our  ancient  right, 
And  thus  acknowledge  the  appeal 

Made  in  thy  name  this  night." 

Then  Ruth  arose,  and  washed  her  face, 

And  modestly  arrayed, 
Set  forth  to  gain  the  threshing-floor, 

As  her  fond  mother  bade. 

When  Boaz  left  the  merry  feast, 

The  straw  a  couch  supplied; 
She  from  his  feet  the  covering  raised, 

And  laid  her  by  his  side. 

At  midnight  he  awoke  from  sleep — 
The  brave  man  shook  with  fear — 

His  very  heart  within  him  quailed 
To  find  a  woman  there. 

"  Who  art  thou?  on  what  errand  bent?" 

"  Behold,  'tis  Ruth!"  she  cried: 
"Protect  me,  kinsman!  for  alone 

In  this  wide  world  I  bide. 

"  Oh!  shield  me  from  the  storms  of  life, 

Thy  mantle  o'er  me  spread; 
My  husband  was  thy  kinsman,  lord, 

And  he  hath  long  been  dead!" 


96  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Oh!  blest,  thrice  blessed  daughter!  thou 

Henceforth  shall  be  my  care: 
The  widoiv  of  Elimelech 

My  favour,  too,  shall  share: 

"  Thy  wisdom  is  beyond  thy  years, 

Thou  hast  discretion  shown; 
The  young  and  gay  thou  hast  not  sought, 

But  looked  to  me  alone. 

"  Name  but  thy  wish,  and  I  will  grant 

Whate'er  thou  dost  require; 
Thy  virtues  and  thy  truth  are  known, 

What  more  can  I  desire? 

"  And  now,  my  daughter,  fear  thou  not, 

For  surely  of  a  truth 
I  am  thy  husband's  nearest  kin; 

Compose  thee,  gentle  Ruth. 

"  I  do  mistake;  there  still  is  one 

Of  nearer  kin  than  I; 
If  he'll  perform  a  kinsman's  part, 

Thou  must  on  him  rely. 

"  Soon  as  the  eastern  sun  shall  gild 

Our  city  with  his  rays, 
I'll  see  this  man; — if  he  consent, 

He  but  our  law  obeys. 

"  Should  he  refuse,  then  fear  thou  not, 

1  will  thy  guardian  prove; 
A  kinsman's  part  I  will  perform 

In  honour  and  in  love. 

"Lie  down,  sweet  Ruth,  till  morning  break, 

Depart  before  'tis  light! 
I  would  not  give  malicious  tongues 

The  power  thy  fame  to  blight." 


RUTH.  97 

He  gave  her  barley  to  sustain 

Her  mother's  fainting  heart, 
And  with  a  new  assurance  said, 

"I'll  act  a  kinsman's  part." 

Then  left  the  threshing-floor,  and  sought 

His  noble  kinsman's  home, 
Who  cheerfully  resigned  his  claim 

To  the  lone  widowed  one. 

Then  he  proceeded  to  the  gate, 

The  elders  all  arrayed, 
And  there  proclaimed  his  fixed  resolve 

To  wed  the  stranger  maid! 

"  I'll  purchase  all  her  husband's  land, 

And  she  shall  be  my  wife; 
And  in  this  presence  here,  I  vow 

To  shield  her  with  my  life. 

"  To  Mahlon  I'll  raise  up  a  name 

In  future  story  great — 
Acknowledged  in  his  ancient  hal!, 

And  on  his  vast  estate." 

Then  all  the  people  gave  a  shout, 
And  poured  their  blessings  down 

Upon  this  good  and  upright  man, 
Who  should  have  worn  a  crown! 

And  Ruth,  the  noble  Princess  Ruth, 

Became  the  wife  of  one, 
Trusted  and  honoured  in  the  land, 

And  bore  to  him  a  son. 

How  throbbed  the  aged  mother's  heart 

As  she  beheld,  with  pride, 
The  firstborn  son  of  her  loved  Ruth 

Now  nestling  at  her  side! 


98  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

She  laid  him  on  her  faithful  breast, 
Her  eyes  overflowed  with  joy, 

Arid  viewed  her  future  comforter 
In  this  beloved  boy. 

A  pious  matron,  in  the  land, 
Stepped  forth  .with  bearing  high, 

As  with  prophetic  spirit,  she 
These  marvels  did  descry. 

"Naomi!  raise  thy  drooping  head, 
Pour  forth  the  song  of  praise! 

Peace,  happiness  and  joy  attend 
Upon  thy  future  days! 

«  His  mother's  virtues  shall  descend 

Upon  this  infant  head, 
A  sevenfold  blessing  he  will  prove, 

Although  thy  sons  be  dead. 

"  He  shall  sustain  thy  wasted  strength, 

Resuscitate  thine  age, 
Restore  the  honours  of  thy  house, 

And  rule  with  wisdom  sage. 

"  And  from  his  loins  there  shall  descend 

A  blessing  on  the  race 
Of  fallen  man,  who,  from  his  birth, 

Shall  their  Redemption  trace!" 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THUS  PASSETH  THE  GLORY  OF  THE 
WORLD. 

WHY  dost  thou  slumber,  oh!  my  soul, 
'Mid  scenes  so  vain  and  false  as  these? 
The  wheels  of  time  full  swiftly  roll, 
And  pleasures  lose  their  power  to  please! 

Life  and  its  glories  pass  away, 
The  charms  of  nature — power  of  song; 
Each  beauty  hastens  to  decay, 
While  death  steals  silently  along. 

Our  pleasures  glide  so  swiftly  by, 
We  scarcely  feel  their  magic  power, 
Grief  for  their  loss  impels  the  sigh, 
Which  would  prolong  the  fleeting  hour. 

Oh!  let  delusive  hope  no  more 
Cheat  our  fond  hearts  with  dreams  of  bliss, 
Those  golden  dreams,  in  days  of  yore, 
Were  bright  with  scenes  of  happiness. 

But  they  have  floated  down  the  stream 
Which  must  o'erwhelm  our  present  joys: 
This  life  is  but  a  varied  dream, 
And  all  its  pleasures  trifling  toys. 

Death  levels  all  distinctions  here — 
The  glittering  crown,  and  humble  head, 
The  eye  undimmed  by  sorrow's  tear, 
All, — all  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 


100  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Where  is  the  beauty  which  could  charm. 
To  infant  softness,  manhood's  pride? 
And  where  the  boasted  strength  of  form, 
Which  could  the  ills  of  life  deride? 

Lost  in  the  tomb  is  all  our  pride! 
Our  grandeur,  and  our  love  of  fame: 
The  mean  and  noble  side  by  side, 
Affinity  to  dust  must  claim! 

Then  why  pursue  these  fleeting  joys? 
Their  power  is  transient;  short  their  zest; 
I  turn  disgusted  from  such  toys, 
And  look  toward  my  heavenly  rest. 

Awake  then,  oh  my  slumbering  soul! 
Let  all  thy  warm  affections  rise, 
To  that  great  source,  that  wondrous  whole. 
Whose  throne  of  glory  is  the  skies! 


TO  MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER  MARGARET. 

AGED    EIGHT    TEARS. 

Awake!  dear  Margaret,  rise,  my  love! 
The  songsters  warble  in  each  grove; 
Awake,  my  child!  and  early  pay 
Thy  homage  to  the  god  of  day! 

Oh!  haste,  and  join  thy  infant  song 
Of  grateful  praise,  with  the  gay  throng, 
Who  daily  tune  their  sweetest  lays 
To  chant  their  great  Creator's  praise. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  101 

Behold!  the  blessings  which  his  hand  hath  spread, 
View  this  green  carpet,  yon  gay  flow'ring  bed — 
Here  the  sweet  rose  its  richest  fragrance  sends, 
And  there  the  modest  rivulet  lowly  bends. 

See  that  majestic  river  wind  its  way, 
Mingling  its  waters  in  yon  noble  bay! 
Those  beauteous  isles,  like  gems  upon  the  wave, 
Long  famed  in  story,  as  the  Hero's  grave. 

See  mount  on  mount,  in  grand  succession  rise! 
Till  lost  in  clouds,  they  mingle  with  the  skies; 
Lo!  all  these  wonders  rose  at  God's  command, 
Ml  bear  the  impress  of  his  mighty  hand! 

Come,  view  them,  dearest,  let  thy  young  heart  glow 
With  love  to  Him,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow; 
He  gave  thee  life,  and  health,  and  tender  friends, 
On  Him  thy  comfort  every  day  depends: 

In  Him  you  live  and  breathe,  in  Him  you  move; 
Then  praise  Him,  child,  for  all  his  wondrous  love! 
Oh!  let  thy  song,  like  sacred  incense  rise 
In  hallelujahs  to  the  lofty  skies! 


EASTER  HYMN. 

This  day  our  blessed  Saviour  rose 
Triumphant  o'er  his  cruel  foes! 
Burst  the  dark  bondage  of  the  grave 
The  Lord  omnipotent  to  save! 

Blest  be  this  day,  for  ever  blest 
This  sacred  day  of  holy  rest! 
Banish,  my  heart,  each  earthly  care, 
Let  heaven  alone  have  entrance  there. 


102  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Oh!  may  no  earth-born  passion  rest, 
This  holy  day,  within  rny  breast! 
But  may  the  treasures  of  thy  word 
Refresh  my  heart,  most  gracious  Lord! 

Revive  this  weak  and  languid  frame 
With  pure  devotion's  sacred  flame, 
And  raise  my  soul  to  God  above, 
The  source  of  comfort,  light,  and  love! 


PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  SEVENTH  CHAP 
TER  OF  JOB. 

Our  days  are  numbered  here  below, 
And  filled  with  vanity  and  pain; 

The  lingering  moments  pass  too  slow; 
But  this  impatience  is  in  vain. 

Restless  I  pass  the  weary  night, 
And  long  for  morning's  cheerful  dawn; 

But  morning's  sunbeams,  dazzling  bright, 
Cannot  bring  peace,  when  health  has  flown. 

My  days  of  pain  fly  swiftly  on, 
As  shuttle  from  the  weaver's  hand; 

Soon  will  this  weary  race  be  run, 
And  I  be  swept  from  off  the  land. 

Reviving  hope  has  ceased  to  cheer 
The  anguish  of  my  tortured  heart; 

There's  naught  but  pain  and  sorrow  here, 
Oh!  gracious  God — let  me  depart! 

When  to  my  couch  I  restless  fly, 

I  find  no  ray  of  comfort  there — 
Visions  of  darkness  terrify 

My  wounded  spirit,  spent  with  care. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  103 

Oh!  heavenly  Father,  end  my  life! 

I  loathe  it,  and  would  now  resign 
These  days  of  vanity  and  strife  — 

Oh!  God,  I  would  be  wholly  thine. 

My  breath  is  like  a  passing  cloud, 
Borne  on  the  boist'rous  northern  gale; 

My  waitings,  nightly,  loud  resound 
Throughout  my  own,  my  native  vale! 

Oh!  what  is  man,  poor  feeble  man, 

That  he  should  merit  thy  regard? 
His  longest  date  is  but  a  span, 

With  suffering,  pain,  and  anguish  marr'd! 

Why  should'st  thou  visit  him  each  morn, 

And  ev'ry  passing  moment  try 
His  wayward  faith,  and  prove  how  strong 

His  hopes  on  heaven  and  Thee  rely? 

I  have  sinned — thou  great  preserver! 

Pardon  my  transgressions,  Lord! 
My  pilgrimage  will  soon  be  over, 

Teach  me  to  rest  upon  thy  word! 


« I  ASCEND  UNTO  MY  FATHER  AND  YOUR 
FATHER,  MY  GOD  AND  YOUR  GOD." 

"  Say,  Mary,  why  these  flowing  tears? 

Lone  one,  why  dost  thou  weep? 
Mourn  not  the  errors  of  past  years, 

But  let  their  mem'ry  sleep. 

"  Thy  penitence  hath  washed  away 

The  crimes  of  early  youth, 
And,  through  affliction,  paved  the  way 

To  virtue,  peace,  and  truth. 


104  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Then  why  those  tears?     Oh!  tell  me  why 
Does  grief  contract  thy  brow?" 

"  Oh!  canst  thou  not  the  cause  descry? 
Where  is  my  Saviour  now? 

"  Where  hast  thou  laid  my  blessed  Lord? 

Why  hast  thou  borne  him  hence? 
His  sacred  relics  I  would  guard 

With  love  and  penitence." 

"  Mary!" — a  well-known  voice  replied, 
Which  thrilled  her  inmost  soul; 

She  turned,  and  filled  with  wonder,  cried 
"My  Master,  I  behold!" 

Oh!  how  her  heart  with  rapture  glowed 
And  burned  with  sacred  fire, 

When  the  soft  accents  gently  flowed 
Which  faith  and  hope  inspire! 

"  Oh!  touch  me  not; — I  have  not  yet 

Ascended  to  my  throne, 
At  His  right  hand  I  take  my  seat, 

My  Father,  and  thine,  own! 

"  Oh!  Mary,  haste,  the  tidings  spread, 

The  brethren  shall  rejoice; 
Tell  them,  though  they  beheld  me  dead, 

Thyself  hast  heard  my  voice. 

"  Unto  my  Father  I  ascend, 

Unto  thy  God  and  mine: 
Oh!  let  their  faith  on  me,  depend, 

My  power  is  all  divine." 

Transcendent  goodness!  wondrous  grace! 

And  godlike  was  the  plan, 
Which  brought  salvation  to  the  race 

Of  guilty,  fallen  man! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  105 


TO  MY  DEAR  AND  BELOVED  FRIEND, 
MRS. . 

Oh  dearest,  could  my  feeble  pen 
Express  the  feelings  of  my  heart, 

Or  give  to  verse  the  soothing  charm 
Thy  presence  ever  doth  impart, 

Then  would  I  touch  the  trembling  chord, 
And  pour  forth  the  full  tide  of  song, 

Thine  ear  should  catch  the  swelling  strain 
As  the  sweet  numbers  roll  along. 

But  my  weak  lyre  in  vain  essays 
To  touch  the  notes  to  friendship  dear; 

Trembling  it  shrinks;  the  feeble  lay 
Responds  alone  to  sorrow's  tear. 

Oh,  I  would  paint  in  glowing  verse 
Thy  gentle,  tender,  faithful  love 

For  the  dear  objects  of  my  care — 
Those  fair  young  angels  now  above. 

Oft  hast  thou  watched  the  germs  of  thought, 
And  seen  the  swelling  buds  expand, 

Inhaled  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 

When  blooming  'neath  my  fostering  hand. 

And  thou  hast  marked  the  swift  decay, 
The  blight  of  all  my  dearest  hopes, 

And  wept  to  see  them  fade  away, 
My  fairest,  dearest  earthly  props. 

And  when  my  mourning  soul  looked  up 
To  find  some  resting  place  from  grief, 

Thy  gentle  voice  has  led  my  heart 
To  the  true  source  of  sweet  relief. 


106  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

There,  in  yon  blissful  realms  of  light, 
In  spotless  purity  they  stand, 

Before  their  Lord  and  Saviour's  throne, 
Behold!  my  fair  young  angel  band. 

Their  sacred  lyres  are  tuned  to  sing 
The  praises  of  redeeming  love; 

Their  full  rich  tones  melodious  join 
The  saint  and  seraph  choir  above. 


Oh,  dearest,  may  this  mourning  heart 
E'er  hope  to  join  that  youthful  band 

Of  angels,  in  those  regions  bright, 
The  pure,  the  blessed  spirit  land? 


The  following  stanzas  were  suggested  by  reflecting  on  the  early 
development  of  Margaret's  genius.  She  was  but  two  years  old 
when  Lucretta  died,  who  often,  during  the  last  year  of  her  life, 
asserted  that  Margaret  must  and  would  be  a  poet.  Her  words 
seemed  prophetic;  the  babe  commenced  writing  between  the  age  ol 
six  and  seven  years. 

But,  as  she  sought  her  mansion  in  the  sky, 

She  turned  to  view,  with  pity  in  her  eye, 

Her  much  lov'd  home,  now  desolate  and  lone; — 

Not  a  faint  ray  of  light  around  it  shone! 

She  dropped  the  mantle  from  her  graceful  form, 

And  tow'rd  her  infant  sister  it  was  borne; 

The  babe,  with  rapture,  seized  the  bright  bequest, 

And  all  ihejire  of  fancy  warmed  her  breast! 

With  eager  haste  she  touched  the  sounding  lyre, 

And  filled  each  chord  "  with  wild  poetic  fire." 

The  wondering  muses  gazed  upon  the  child 

As  the  full  tide  of  song  rose  clear  and  wild; 

Then  claimed  the  babe,  inspired,  pure,  bright,  and  fair, 

As  the  dear  object  of  their  future  care! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  107 


ON  THE  VANITY  OF  WORLDLY  PLEASURE. 

Tell  me,  weak  votary  of  pleasure, 
With  haggard  eye  and  pallid  cheek, 

Tell  me  the  value  of  the  treasure 
Which  so  earnestly  you  seek. 

Can  your  enjoyments  purchase  peace? 

Or  sweet  content  impart? 
Avert  the  shaft  of  fell  disease? 

Or  heal  a  wounded  heart? 

Each  finer  feeling  of  the  mind 

Is  blunted  by  their  power; 
And,  lost  to  virtue,  you  resign 

Your  peace  in  folly's  hour! 

Does  not  the  canker  of  remorse 

Prey  on  thy  wasted  frame? 
Wither  thy  fleeting,  transient  joys 

With  never  ceasing  shame? 

Come  view  the  path  to  virtue  dear! 

Her  steps  will  lead  to  peace; 
No  stings  of  conscience  ravage  here, 

Her  joys  can  never  cease! 

Should  sorrow  blight  your  dearest  hopes, 

Each  fancied  bliss  destroy, 
Virtue  is  an  unfailing  prop 

The  sinking  soul  to  buoy. 

In  the  last  hour  of  mortal  strife, 
When  earth  recedes  from  view, 

How  happy  to  retrace  a  life 
To  every  virtue  true! 


108  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

This  sweet  reflection  sheds  a  ray 
Of  brightness  o'er  the  mind, 

Which  lights  it  to  eternal  day, 
And  pleasures  all  refined! 


JOB  XIX.  A  PARAPHRASE. 

How  long  will  ye  afflict  my  soul: 
And  break  my  mourning  heart  in  twain, 
Your  words,  like  raging  torrents  roll, 
And  add  new  torture  to  my  pain: 

If  I  have  erred,  the  sin  is  mine, 
My  errors  rest  on  me  alone; 
Why  thus  assume  the  power  divine 
To  judge  the  faults  which  I  bemoan? 

Why  with  such  cruelty  reproach 

Thy  friend,  bowed  down  with  grief  and  pain? 

Oh!  rather  light  the  cheering  torch 

Of  hope  within  my  breast  again! 

Know  ye,  that  'tis  the  hand  of  God 
Has  overthrown  my  strength  and  power? 
And  while  I  wither  'neath  His  rod, 
Should  you  these  bitter  curses  shower? 

Why  heap  on  this  devoted  head 
Such  cold  contempt,  and  foul  reproach? 
The  path  of  anguish  which  /treat! 
Methinks  should  your  compassion  touch. 

For  He  hath  stripped  me  of  my  pride, 
My  strength,  my  glory,  my  renown, 
My  wealth  and  grandeur  laid  aside, 
And  reft  me  of  my  brilliant  crown. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  109 

He  hath  consumed  my  fairest  hopes, 
Wither'd  my  dearest,  sweetest  joys, 
And,  like  the  stately,  blasted  oak, 
My  spreading  branches  he  destroys! 

My  friends,  who  shared  my  social  board, 
And  feasted  in  my  splendid  hall, 
Around  me  their  reproaches  pour, 
And  triumph  in  my  mournful  fall: 

Their  eyes  glance  coldly  on  my  face, 
They  scarcely  know  rny  altered  voice, 
I  walk  a  stranger  in  this  place, 
The  scene  of  ail  my  former  joys: 

I  call  my  servants,  but  receive 
No  answer  to  my  urgent  call; 
No  sympathy  relieves  my  woe, 
'Tis  scornful  silence  with  them  all! 

My  wife,  who  pledged  to  me  her  truth. 
Her  duty,  and  her  fervent  love, 
And  in  the  happy  days  of  youth 
Each  care  to  lighten,  daily  strove; 

Now  views  with  cold,  suspicious  eye 
My  alter'd,  wan,  and  wasted  form: 
I  feel  my  heart  within  me  die, — 
Naught  to  my  woe  imparts  a  charm! 

Each  friend  I  love,  with  horror  turns 
And  views  me  with  unfeign'd  disgust; 
My  flesh  with  raging  fever  burns, 
My  mouth  is  parched  with  constant  thirst. 

Oh!  let  soft  pity  touch  your  heart! 
'Tis  God  who  deals  the  heavy  blow, 
Beneath  his  chastening  hand  I  smart, 
His  power  hath  laid  my  grandeur  low! 


110  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Oh!  could  you  read  my  inmost  soul! 
My  faith  is  firm,  my  hope  is  strong; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives, 
And  mercy  doth  to  him  belong! 

Though  the  dark  grave  my  form  shall  shroud, 
And  worms  shall  revel  on  my  frame, 
/  know,  I  shall  behold  my  God; 
The  Great  Jehovah  is  his  name! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  LAMENTED 
DAUGHTER,  L.  M.  D. 

Thou  art  gone  from  among  us,  so  lovely  and  fair. 

No  more  shall  the  sound  of  thy  lyre, 
Through  our  halls  sweetly  echo!     Still  sadness  is 
there, 

And  gone  is  the  tuneful  choir! 

Oh,  quench'd  is  that  eye-beam,  and  quench'd  is  the 
light 

Of  sacred  "poetical  fire," 
And  that  genius,  which  shone  so  resplendently  bright, 

Hath  ceased  our  wrapt  souls  to  inspire! 

Sweet  spirit  of  purity!  where  hast  thou  flown? 

To  what  region  of  light,  and  of  peace? 
To  what  brilliant  planet — say — where  is  thy  home? 

And  where  do  thy  wanderings  cease? 

Art  thou  borne  on  the  light  cloud  of  evening  along 

Thro'  the  azure  expanse  of  heaven? 
Or  is  thy  freed  soul  now  number'd  among 

The  beautiful  stars  of  even? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  HI 

The  sound  of  thy  harp-strings  steal  over  my  soul 

In  the  sadness  and  stillness  of  night; 
In  strings  so  celestial  the  sweet  numbers  roll, 

That  my  senses  are  wrapt  in  delight. 

Alas!  these  are  visions,  delusive  and  vain, 

Which  cheat  my  fond  fancy,  and  lead  me  astray; 

Oh!  teach  me,  blest  cherub,  thy  loss  to  sustain 
Till  I  meet  thee  again  in  the  regions  of  day. 


LINES, 

Suggested  by  receiving  a  boquet  of  rare  flowers,  with  many 
other  attentions,  peculiarly  grateful  to  an  invalid,  suffering  by 
long  confinement. 

Beautiful  blossoms!  emblems  fair 

Of  purity  and  truth! 
I  love  to  breathe  their  fragrance  rare, 

The  gift  of  happy  youth. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  wish 

To  smooth  the  brow  of  care, 
And  'rase  the  wrinkles,  which  the  hand 

Of  grief  hath  planted  there, 

Impelled  thee,  gentle  maid,  to  send 

Thy  treasures  from  their  place, 
Enriched  with  all  their  sweet  perfume, 

My  couch  of  pain  to  grace. 

Thy  Father,  love,  who  dwells  on  high, 

Amid  his  angel  choirs, 
Sees  from  his  throne  beyond  the  sky: 

'Tis  He  thy  heart  inspires! 


112  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

'Tis  the  "  Divinity  within" 

Thy  warm  and  gentle  breast; 
And  his  approving  smile  shall  win 

For  thee  a  glorious  rest. 

When  sorrow  lays  her  blighting  hand 

Upon  thy  youthful  form, 
Dear  friends,  beloved,  thy  couch  shall  spread, 

And  shield  thee  from  the  storm. 

And  may  that  God,  whose  tender  care 

Protects  each  fragile  flower, 
Transplant  thee  to  his  garden  fair, 

In  Eden's  blooming  bower! 


LINES  TO 


Shall  I  sing  of  a  face  that  is  blooming  and  fair? 
And  of  dimples  and  smiles,  which  are  revelling  there, 
Of  a  broad  white  brow,  and  of  ringlets  bright, 
Of  the  soft  blue  eye  which  is  beaming  with  light? 

Shall  I  sing  of  a  lofty  and  dignified  mien, 
Of  a  graceful  carriage,  a  step  like  a  queen? 
Alas!  these  are  fleeting — tho'  lovely  the  bloom 
Of  the  rose  on  thy  cheek,  it  may  fade  ere  'tis  noon. 

Those  beautiful  dimples  that  play  round  that  face, 
Must  soon  to  the  furrows  of  age  give  place! 
And  old  Time  will  plant  the  deep  wrinkles  of  care 
On  that  brow  now  so  lovely,  so  placid  and  fair. 

Those  soft,  waving  ringlets,  so  glossy  and  bright, 
His  hand  will  displace  for  a  silvery  white, 
And  that  form  so  majestic,  so  noble  and  proud, 
One  day  'neath  the  pressure  of  time  must  be  bowed. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  113 

Then  what  shall  I  say?  shall  I  sing  of  the  mind 
Which,  within  that  fair,  perishing  form,  is  enshrined? 
Its  virtues  are  lasting,  they  never  decay — 
"But  grow  brighter  and  brighter  as  time  wears  away." 

'Tis  the  spirit  divine,  which  to  mortals  is  given, — 
Oh!  'tis  surely  a  bright  emanation  from  heaven! 
Its  light  grows  more  brilliant  'mid  nature's  decay, 
And  it  beams  thro'  eternity's  long,  endless  day. 


FIFTY-FIFTH  PSALM. 

Give  ear  unto  my  fervent  prayer 

My  Father!  and  my  God! 
My  cup  with  sorrow  overflows, — 

I  sink  beneath  thy  rod! 

Trembling,  I  view  the  fearful  path, 
vVnd  overwhelmed  with  woe, 

My  spirit  sinks  within  me,  Lord! 
Surrounded  by  the  foe; 

My  bursting  heart,  my  aching  frame, 

Can  scarce  sustain  the  load; 
My  sins  with  anguish  fill  my  soul, 

And  make  me  doubt  my  God! 

Oh!  could  I  fly  like  yonder  dove, 
How  soon  I'd  wing  my  way 

Through  trackless  ether's  broad  expanse, 
To  realms  of  endless  day! 

Or  to  some  thick  embowering  wood 

I'd  speed  my  airy  flight, 
Or  in  some  dreary  wilderness, 

Would  shade  me  from  their  sight: 


114  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

There  might  the  frowning  tempest  howl, 
Fearless  I'd  brave  the  storm — 

And  'mid  the  clustering  branches  hide 
My  wan  and  wasted  form. 

Yet  why  these  vain  inventions  seek? 

Doth  not  Jehovah  reign? 
In  His  protection  I'll  rejoice, 

Nor  shall  I  trust  in  vain! 

A  stranger's  cold  contemptuous  glance 
My  soul  had  met  with  scorn, 

Each  slander,  levelled  at  my  name, 
I  had  in  silence  borne: 

But  he,  mine  own  familiar  friend, 
Mine  equal,  and  my  guide. 

He  who  had  shared  my  inmost  thoughts; 
Whose  love  had  been  my  pride; 

Whose  sweet  companionship  had  cheered 

Full  many  a  weary  day; 
Whose  counsel  stayed  my  erring  feet, 

When  wand'ring  from  the  way; 

Whose  prayers  ascended  with  my  own 

Up  to  the  fount  of  life, 
And  bade  me  seek  thy  temple,  Lord, 

With  pure  devotion  rife! 

Oh!  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear 

That  one  I  loved  so  well, 
Should  thus  combine  my  soul  to  snare 

With  malice  dark  and  fell! 

Oh!  Lord,  defend  thy  servant's  cause, 

Protect  my  helpless  head! 
Oh!  shield  me  in  thy  powerful  arms, 

Redeem  me  from  the  dead! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  115 

Lord!  I  am  crushed  beneath  thy  rod, 

Father!  on  thee  I  call; 
At  early  morn,  at  latest  eve, 

Thou  art  my  stay,  my  all! 

Oh!  grant  me  but  the  cheering  light 

Of  thy  approving  smile, 
Danger  and.  death  my  soul  should  brave, 

Nor  shrink  from  care  or  toil. 

I'll  cast  my  burdens  on  the  Lord! 

He  will  sustain  them  all, 
His  love  forever  shall  endure, 

His  power  prevent  my  fall. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

MISS B. 

Dear  Mary,  had  thy  friend  the  power 

Thy  future  to  control, 
No  shade  of  sorrow  e'er  should  cloud 

The  "  sunshine  of  thy  soul." 

Thy  life  should  smoothly  glide  along 

One  pure  unruffled  stream; 
With  health  and  competence  and  peace, 

Thy  flowing  cup  should  teem. 

The  morning  dawns  in  cheerful  light 

Upon  thy  youthful  head; 
Oh,  may  a  day  as  fair  and  bright 

Upon  its  footsteps  tread. 


116  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Affection's  kind  and  fostering  hand 
Watched  o'er  thy  tender  youth, 

And  planted  in  thy  youthful  breast 
The  seeds  of  sacred  truth. 

Oh!  let  a  harvest  rich  and  rare 
Spring  up  within  thy  mind, 

Let  Heaven-born  virtue  flourish  there 
With  feelings  all  refined; 

That  when  thy  long  and  useful  day 

Is  drawing  to  a  close, 
Not  one  reflection  on  the  past 

Shall  ruffle  thy  repose. 

Each  sweet  remembrance  as  it  comes 

Across  thy  dying  mind, 
Of  passions  conquered,  faults  redeemed, 

And  actions  just  and  kind, 

Shall  shed  a  ray  of  peace  and  joy 

O'er  thy  departing  soul, 
And  light  thy  entrance  to  a  world, 

Where  sin  has  no  control. 


TO  CAROLINE, 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  HER   MARRIAGE  AND    DEPARTURE  FOR 
THE  SANDWICH  ISLANDS. 

Adieu,  my  fair,  my  much  loved  friend, 

A  long,  a  last  farewell! 
May  angels  on  your  steps  attend, 

And  every  fear  dispel! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  H7 

May  He  who  rules  the  boisterous  sea, 

And  calms  it  at  his  word, 
Your  guide  and  guardian  ever  be, 

Your  Saviour  and  your  Lord. 

When  severed  is  each  tender  tie, 
Which  binds  your  heart  to  home, 

And  when  beneath  a  foreign  sky 
A  wanderer  you  roam, 

May  he,  the  friend  for  whose  dear  love 

Rich  blessings  you  forego, 
A  tender  guardian  ever  prove 

In  happiness  or  woe. 

Arid  may  the  sacred  cause  divine, 

Which  leads  you  to  depart, 
Impel  each  movement,  and  refine 

Each  feeling  of  your  heart. 

And  when  in  heathen  lands  you  hear 

The  blest  Redeemer's  praise, 
May  the  glad  sound  your  bosom  cheer 

While  you  the  anthem  raise! 

Should  pain  and  sickness  cloud  your  brow, 

Then  let  your  faith  be  shown: 
In  meek  submission  humbly  bow 

Before  Jehovah's  throne. 

And  should  your  weary  spirit  find 

No  resting  place  from  pain, 
No  home  in  that  far  distant  clime 

Your  weakness  to  sustain, 

Oh!  then  let  faith  and  grace  combine; 

Rest  wholly  on  the  Lord! 
Each  earthly  care  may  you  resign, — 

Depending  on  his  word: 


118  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

That  word  which  will  not,  cannot  fail, 
Though  time  shall  pass  away, 

The  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail, — 
'Tis  firm  through  endless  day! 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  MARGARET,  WHEN  A 
CHILD. 

(Written  on  Saturday  evening.) 

Dear  Margaret,  when  the  morning  sun 

Shall  gild  the  eastern  sky, 
Reflect,  a  Sabbath  has  begun, 

And  raise  thy  thoughts  on  high! 

Let  sacred  contemplation  fire 

Thy  young  and  ardent  mind, 
And  may  each  holy  theme  inspire 

Thy  harp  with  songs  refined. 

Oh!  mayst  thou  sing  Redeeming  love! 

And  may  the  anthem  rise 
Like  incense  to  the  courts  above, 

Beyond  the  lofty  skies. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  MY  FRIEND,  MRS. 

Oh  thou!  whose  gentle  voice  recalls 
The  memory  of  the  past, 

And  all  those  soft,  endearing  joys, 
Which  were  too  pure  to  last; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  119 

When  peerless  daughters  blessed  my  arms, 

As  lovely  as  thyself, 
Whose  smiles  were  dearer  to  my  heart 

Than  mines  of  countless  wealth, — 

Oh!  thou,  whose  sympathy  sustained 

Me,  in  that  trying  hour, 
When  dearest  Margaret  meekly  bowed 

To  the  destroyer's  power; 

Who  like  a  ministering  angel  stood, 

The  tear-drop  in  thine  eye, — 
And  bade  me  seek  my  darling  child 

Beyond  the  upper  sky!  — 

What  blessings  shall  I  ask  for  thee? 

Thou  dear  and  gentle  one! 
Thy  unremitting  tenderness 

My  grateful  love  hath  won! 

Fortune  hath  pour'd  her  choicest  gifts 

Upon  thy  favoured  head, 
Husband  and  children  grace  thy  board 

Arid  blessings  on  thee  shed. 

If  e'er  an  aspiration  rose 

Within  thy  gentle  breast, 
If  e'er  thy  heart  hath  form'd  a  wish 

Thou  never  hast  expressed; 

Oh!  may  that  power  who  rules  on  earth, 

According  to  his  will, 
In  answer  to  my  fervent  prayer 

That  cherish'd  wish  fulfil! 

And  I  will  ask  the  noblest  boon 

To  crown  thy  happy  life, 
An  interest  in  the  eternal  world, 

Where  neither  care,  nor  strife, 


120  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Thy  peace  shall  mar,  thy  hopes  destroy, — 
Where  fadeless  flowers  shall  bloom 

Through  endless  ages,  pure  and  bright, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  tomb! 


TO  A  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIEND,  MRS.  ******. 
JUNE  15th,  1842. 

Come,  dear  one!  let  thy  gentle  voice 

Revive  the  drooping  head 
Of  one,  whom  anguish  long  hath  bowed, 

From  whom  e'en  hope  hath  fled. 

Dear  one!  I  knew  thee  when  a  babe 

In  thy  fond  mother's  arms, 
I  knew  thee  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 

Decked  in  thy  maiden  charms; 

I  saw  thee  in  thy  day  of  power, 
When  lovers  swell'd  thy  train! 

When  each,  to  grace  thy  maiden  bower, 
Culled  blossoms  from  the  plain! — 

I  saw  thee  when  a  beauteous  bride, 

In  modesty  arrayed; 
Thy  blushing  cheek  and  downcast  eye, 

Thy  happiness  portrayed: 

But  when  I  saw  thy  graceful  form, 

In  patient  meekness,  bend 
Hour  after  hour,  above  the  couch 

Of  thy  young,  suffering  friend; 

And  when  I  saw  thy  tender  hand 

Bathing  his  fevered  brow, 
And  heard  thy  strains  of  sympathy 

In  gentle  accents  flow; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  121 

When  all  a  sister's  tenderness 

Was  beaming  in  thine  eyes, 
Lighting  the  sufferer's  faded  face 

With  pleasure,  and  surprise; 

Then,  to  my  sad  and  mournful  heart, 

Thy  loveliness  surpassed 
All  that  my  fancy  ever  dreamed 

In  mortal  mould  was  castJ — 

Oh!  come  again,  and  let  thy  smile 

Diffuse  a  transient  glow 
O'er  the  pale  cheek,  where  fell  disease 

Hath  stamped  his  impress  now. 

Come!  and  a  mother's  bursting  heart 

Shall  throb  with  grateful  joy, 
Invoking  blessings  on  her  head 

Who  soothed  her  dying  boy! — 


A  PARTING  ADDRESS 

OF  A  MOTHER  TO  A  YOUNG  SON  ON  HIS  FIRST  LEAVING 
THE  PARENTAL  ROOF. 

Farewell,  my  son!  may  angels  guard 

Thy  unprotected  youth! 
May  heaven-born  virtue  guide  thy  steps 

In  the  fair  path  of  truth. 

Though  tottering  on  the  verge  of  life, 
And  racked  with  pain  and  care, 

My  own,  my  darling,  much  loved  boy 
My  counsel  still  must  share. 


122  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

She  who  has  watched  thy  cradle-bed, 
And  marked  thy  infant  sports, 

Through  early  childhood's  winding  maze. 
And  led  thee  to  the  courts, — 

The  earthly  courts  of  Heaven's  high  King, 
And  taught  thee  there  to  bow 

In  reverence  to  his  sacred  name, 
Cannot  forget  thee  now! — 

Remember,  boy,  thy  mother's  love, 

Her  precepts  and  her  care, 
And  may  her  parting  counsel  prove 

A  beacon  bright  and  fair. 

Oh!  thou  wilt  need  a  guide,  my  son, 

A  firm  and  faithful  friend, 
A  mother's  watchful  eye  no  more 

Thy  footsteps  may  attend!  — 

Oh!  shun  the  tempter  who  would  strive 
To  lead  thee  from  the  truth;  — 

Be  God  thy  trust!  he  will  protect 
And  guide  thy  wayward  youth. 


ADDRESSED  TO  MY  FRIEND  MRS. 


Why,  dear  one,  dost  thou  stay?  the  summer  rose 
Has  shed  its  blossoms,  and  the  deep  repose 
Of  cheerless  winter  hangs  on  all  around! 

No  hum  of  bee, 

Or  insect  free, 

Or  notes  of  woodland  chorister  resound 
Throughout  our  groves!  the  cold,  cold  wintry  day 
Is  dark  and  sad, — why,  dear  one,  dost  thou  stay? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  123 

Are  there  no  scenes  to  memory  dear, 
No  cherished  loved  ones  lingering  here, 
To  whom  affection  fondly  clings? 

Oh!  come  and  cheer 

The  sadness  here! 

Linger  no  more.     On  friendship's  wings, 
Oh!  come,  and  shed  thy  brightness  on  our  day; 
Joy  on  our  hearts;  why,  dear  one,  dost  thou  stay? 

Oh!  come,  and  let  thy  radiant  eye 
Bid  care  and  pain  and  sorrow  fly. 
I  know  within  thy  gentle  breast 

The  thought  of  one 

(Whose  setting  sun 
Is  sinking  'neath  a  cloud)  doth  rest; 
Oh!  come  once  more,  and  let  the  cheering  ray 
Of  friendship  shine  on  her — why,  dear  one,  stay? 


ON  MY  DAUGHTER  MARGARET'S  TENTH 
BIRTH-DAY. 

Awake,  thou  bright  orb!  in  thy  splendour  arise, 

Disperse  every  cloud  in  the  pure  azure  skies; 

Blow  soft,  ye  rough  winds,  as  ye  sweep  o'er  the 

plain, 
And  bring  fragrance  and  verdure  and  bloom  in  your 

train! 

This  day,  be  it  sacred!    Ye  spirits  of  air! 
Who  guarded  the  couch  of  the  infant  so  fair, 
Ye  sylphs,  and  ye  sylphids,  oh!  hasten  to  earth 
To  welcome  the  morn  of  your  votary's  birth. 

Ye  muses,  attend!  let  your  presence  inspire 
The  soul  of  your  favourite  with  "poesy's  fire;" 
Entwine  round  her  brow  the  sweet  garlands  of  spring, 
And  in  strains  of  soft  melody  teach  her  to  sing. 


124  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Let  virtue,  and  genius,  and  fancy  unite 

To  awaken  the  harp  of  this  being  so  bright; 

Let  the  fire  of  devotion  enliven  the  lay 

Which  her  spirit  shall  breathe  on  her  blest  natal  day! 


IMPROMPTU, 

AS  THE  THOUGHT  OCCURRED  OF  GIVING  THE  NAME  OF 
MY  SAINTED  MARGARET  TO  THE  CHILD  OF  A  VERY 
DEAR  FRIEND. 

Receive,  sweet  babe,  an  angel's  name! 

And  with  the  high  bequest 
I  would  transmit  the  faultless  mind 

In  all  its  graces  drest. 

Dear  Margaret! — with  that  sacred  name 

Each  blessing  I'd  bequeath; 
Health,  peace  and  innocence  should  form 

For  thee  a  fadeless  wreath! 

I  would  endow  thee,  favoured  babe, 

If  but  the  power  were  mine, 
With  all  that's  noble  and  refined 

To  grace  thy  infant  shrine. 

The  muses  should  inspire  thy  tongue 

In  seraph  strains  to  sing, 
And  teach  thy  young,  thy  infant  lyre 

With  melody  to  ring. 

Genius  should  spread  her  soaring  wings, 

And  clasp  thee  in  their  fold, 
And  on  the  golden  scroll  of  fame 

Thy  name  should  be  enrolled! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  125 

Thy  lyre  should  sound  thy  Maker's  praise 

In  music  soft  and  low, 
Arid  angels  lend  a  raptured  ear 

As  the  sweet  numbers  flow. 

Virtue  and  truth  should  hold  their  throne 

Within  thy  peaceful  breast, 
And  pure  religion's  chastening  power 

Fit  thee  for  endless  rest. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  TO  THE  AUTHOR  UPON  LEAVING  HER  HOME 
AT  PLATTSBURGH,  WHICH  WAS  DOUBLY  ENDEARED 
TO  HER  AS  THE  BIRTH-PLACE  OF  HER  DAUGHTER 
LUCRETIA. 

Oh!  dear  pleasant  home,  must  I  bid  you  adieu, 
And  all  the  loved  objects  so  dear  to  my  heart? 

How  oft  will  fond  memory  bring  to  my  view 

The  long  cherish'd  scenes  from  which  I  must  part. 

Dear  home  of  enjoyment,  of  suffering,  of  grief, 

Where  fond  hopes  were  blasted,  bright  visions  de 
stroyed, 

Where  the  cup  of  affliction  I've  drank  long  and  deep, 
And  happiness  exquisite  likewise  enjoyed — 

rOh!  there  have  I  watched  the  young  dawnings  of 

genius, 
Their  beams  bright  and  dazzling,  but  transient  as 

bright; 

They  glanced  o'er  my  path  like  a  meteor  at  evening, 
And  hastily  set  in  the  deep  shades  of  night. 

*  Alluding  to  my  daughter  L.  M.  D. 


126  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

But  they  left  a  reflection  so  bright  and  transcendent, 
It  beams  o'ec  my  soul  amid  darkness  and  gloom; 
A  glorious  halo  so  bright  and  resplendent, 
'Twill  lighten  my  path  to  the  verge  of  the  tomb. 

Oh!  dear  to  this  heart  is  each  fond  recollection, 
And  sacred  the  spot  her  nativity  graced! 
Which  witnessed  her  virtues,  her  filial  affection, 
And  hallowed  the  spot  where  her  ashes  are  placed. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  MRS.  A.  E.  T. 

Oh,  dear  one!  'mid  scenes  of  enjoyment  and  peace, 
When  thy  full  cup  of  happiness  nearly  o'erflows, 
When  bright  rosy  health  all  thy  joys  shall  increase, 
Then  think  not  of  her,  'twill  disturb  thy  repose; 

Oh!  think  not  of  her. 

But  when  pain  and  disease  shall  ruffle  that  brow, 
When  anguish  has  faded  that  health-blooming  cheek, 
When  all  the  bright  visions  which  play  round  thee 

now 
Shall  have  vanished  in  air — Oh!  then,  dearest  one. 

speak, — 

Oh!  then  think  of  her. 

Think  of  her  who  has  watched,  who  has  wept,  who 

has  prayed, 

That  heaven  would  avert  every  sorrow  from  thee; 
That  the  mildew  of  sickness  shall  ne'er  cast  a  shade 
Of  gloom  on  that  face  so  expressive  of  glee, — 

Oh!  then  think  of  her. 

Think  of  her  who  with  anguish  has  heard  every  sigh 
Which  heaved  thy  young  bosom  in  infancy  bright — 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  127 

Who  has  wiped,  with  affection,  each  tear  from  thine 

eye, 

And  pressed  thy  soft  form  to  her  heart  with  delight — 

Think,  dear  one,  of  her. 

Think  then  of  the  mother,  the  guardian,  the  friend, 
Whose  counsels  directed  thy  footsteps  in  youth; 
Her  prayers  and  her  blessings  still  daily  ascend, 
For  thee,  to  the  fountain  of  mercy  and  truth — 

Oh!  then  think  of  her. 


THE  LAMENT. 

And  thou  art  gone!  with  the  autumn  leaf. 

Thy  fragile  form  hath  faded! 
And  all  our  warm  and  brilliant  hopes 

In  the  cold  dark  tomb  are  shaded! 

Fond  memory  to  my  withered  soul 
Presents  my  fair,  my  blighted  flower! 

Mournful  yet  sweet  her  image  comes 
As  in  that  last,  that  dying  hour, 

When,  clasped  within  my  feeble  arms, 
I  held  thee  to  my  bursting  heart, 

And  met  thy  tender,  earnest  gaze, 

Which  said — "  dear  mother!  we  must  part.'7 

The  chastened  ray  which  beamed  within 

Thine  intellectual  eye, 
Told  that  a  spirit  rested  there 

Whose  light  could  never  die! 

What  high  and  holy  thoughts  then  gave 
Thy  broad  white  brow  an  angel's  light. 

As  o'er  the  darkness  of  the  grave 
It  beamed  with  inspiration  bright! 


128  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Thou  art  an  angel  now,  ray  child, 
Each  rich  and  glowing  thought, 

No  longer  bound  by  earthly  views, 
With  heavenly  themes  is  fraught! 

Thy  pure  and  lofty  spirit  now 
With  kindred  angels  bows — 

Thy  hallowed  lyre,  though  silent  here, 
Celestial  bands  arouse; 

The  soft  melodious  anthem  peals 
Throughout  the  heavenly  courts, 

While  sister  angels  catch  the  strain, 
And  swell  the  lofty  notes. 

And  there,  with  all  its  vast  desires, 
Half  formed  and  undefined, 

Bathing  in  streams  of  endless  light, 
Lives  thy  undying  mind. 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

'Twas  midnight — and  the  moon's  chaste  beam 

Illumined  Bethlehem's  plain; 
It  shed  a  soft  but  fitful  light 

O'er  nature's  wide  domain. 

Its  quivering  beams  now  softly  stream 

Amid  the  branches  light 
Of  the  tall  palms,  which  partly  shade 

The  brilliant  orb  of  night. 

The  thin  white  clouds  majestic  move 

Across  the  radiant  sky, 
Casting  a  slight  and  transient  shade 

O'er  objects  as  they  fly. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  129 

The  countless  stars  which  deck'd  the  night, 

In  regal  splendour  shone, 
Pouring  their  pure  and  sacred  light 

On  Bethlehem's  humble  town. 

Beneath  a  tall  and  shady  palm 

The  slumbering  shepherds  lay, 
Upon  the  grass  their  bleating  charge 

Slept  'neath  the  moon's  pure  ray. 

Sudden,  a  peal  of  music  burst 

Upon  the  ravished  ear, 
The  waking  shepherds  trembling  lay, 

Transfixed  in  silent  fear. 

When,  bending  from  a  fleecy  cloud, 

An  angel  met  their  gaze, 
While  round  a  flood  of  glory  poured 

Which  filled  them  with  amaze. 

"Fear  not!  behold,  I  tidings  bring, 

Glad  tidings  of  great  joy, 
To  Israel  there  is  born  a  King; 

Let  praise  your  songs  employ. 

"  To  you  in  Bethlehem-town,  this  day 

Is  born  of  David's  line, 
A  sovereign  who  is  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign: 

"The  babe  within  a  manger  lies, 

All  wrapped  in  swathing  bands; 
Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 

To  all  the  Gentile  lands." 

The  soft  melodious  anthem  ceased, 

When,  to  their  raptured  sight, 
The  parting  cloud  a  host  displayed 

Of  angels  dazzling  bright. 
9 


ISO  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  shepherds  list,  in  silent  awe, 

To  catch  the  sacred  strain, 
"  Glory  to  God!  on  earth  be  peace, 

Good  will  to  sinful  men; 

"  Glory  to  God!  his  name  be  praised, 

And  Christ  his  only  Son, 
Who  brings  redemption  to  a  world 

By  crime  and  guilt  undone; 

"  Good  will  to  men,  and  peace  on  earth.'' 

Each  angel  voice  resounds, 
Salvation  to  the  chosen  race, 

Mercy  and  peace  abounds. 

Loud  hallelujahs  to  the  Lord, 

And  to  our  infant  King! 
Salvation  to  a  ruined  world, 

Doth  Christ  your  Saviour  bring! 

A  dazzling  light  resplendent  shone 

Upon  each  angel  face, 
Which,  as  they  spread  their  golden  wings. 

Illumined  all  the  place. 

Loud  hallelujahs  filled  the  air, 

As  the  ascending  host, 
With  outstretched  pinions,  soared  aloft, 

And  in  the  heavens  were  lost. 


THE   SIX   BOOKS   OF  FINGAL. 


That  the  following  poems  maybe  the  better  understood,  and  the  chain  of  the 
I  story  kept  unbroken,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  insert  the  entire  argument  oJ 
[  M'Pherson  in  the  original,  before  the  commencement  of  every  book.] 

ARGUMENT  TO  BOOK  I. 


yuthullin  (general  of  the  Irish  tribes  in  the  minority  of  Cor- 
mac,  king  of  Ireland),  silting  alone  beneath  a  tree  at  the  gate 
of  Tura,  a  castle  of  Ulster,  (the  other  chiefs  having  gone  on  a 
hunting  party  to  Cromla,  a  neighbouring  hill,)  is  informed  of 
the  landing  of  Swaran,  King  of  Lochlin,  by  Moran,  the  son  of 
Fithil,  one  of  his  scouts.  He  convenes  the  chiefs;  a  council  is 
held,  and  disputes  run  high  about  giving  battle  to  the  enemy. 
Connal,  the  petty  king  of  Togorma,  and  an  intimate  friend  of 
Cuthullin,  was  for  retreating,  till  Fingal,  king  of  those  Caledo 
nians  who  inhabited  the  northwest  coast  of  Scotland,  whose  aid 
had  been  previously  solicited,  should  arrive;  but  Calmar,  the  son 
of  Matha,  lord  of  Lara,  a  country  in  Connaught,  was  for  engag 
ing  the  enemy  immediately.  Cuthullin,  of  himself  willing  to 
light,  went  into  the  opinion  of  Calmar.  Marching  towards  the 
enemy,  he  missed  three  of  his  bravest  heroes,  Fergus,  Ducho- 
mor,  and  Cathba.  Fergus  arriving,  tells  Cuthullin  of  the  death 
of  the  two  other  chiefs;  which  introduces  the  affecting  episode 
of  Morna,  the  daughter  of  Cormac.  The  army  of  Culhullin  is 
descried  at  a  distance  by  Swaran,  who  sent  the  son  of  Aruo  to 
observe  the  motions  of  the  enemy,  while  he  himself  ranged  hi? 
forces  in  order  of  battle.  The  son  of  Arno  returning  to  Swa 
ran,  describes  to  him  Cuthullin's  chariot,  and  the  terrible  ap 
pearance  of  that  hero.  The  armies  engage,  but  night  coming 
on,  leaves  the  victory  undecided.  Cuthullin,  according  to  the 
hospitality  of  the  times,  sends  to  Swaran  a  formal  invitation  to 
a  feast  by  his  bard  Carril,  the  son  of  Kinfena.  Swaran  refuses 
to  come.  Carril  relates  to  Cuthullin  the  story  of  Grudar  and 
Brassolis.  A  party,  by  Connal's  advice,  is  sent  to  observe  the 
enemy,  which  closes  the  action  of  the  day. 


132  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


BOOK     I. 


BY  Tura's  walls  Cuthullin  sat, 
By  the  tree  of  the  rustling  sound; 

His  spear  against  the  rock  reclined, 
His  shield  on  the  grassy  mound. 

His  thoughts  were  of  the  mighty  dead — 
Great  Cairbar  slain  in  Erin's  war — 

When  Moran,  Fithil's  son  appears, 
The  scout  of  ocean  from  afar. 

"Arise,  Cuthullin!"  cried  the  youth, 
"  The  ships  of  Lochlin  ride  the  wave; 

Strong  are  the  foes,  Oh!  chief  of  men, 
Great  Swaran's  sea-borne  heroes  brave.'' 

"Why  tremble,  son  of  Fithil,  why? 

Thy  fears  have  magnified  the  foe; 
Great  Morven's  mighty  king  it  is, 

Whose  ships  toward  green  Erin  row." 

"JTis  Swaran's  self,  I  saw  the  chief, 
'Tis  royal  Starna's  valiant  son; 

His  tall  form  as  a  glittering  rock — 
His  shield  is  as  the  rising  moon. 

"His  spear  is  a  tall  blasted  pine; 

He  sat  upon  the  lonely  shore, 
As  mist  upon  the  silent  hill, 

Conning  the  scenes  of  battle  o'er. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  133 

"  '  Well  art  thou  named  the  mighty  man!' 
I  said,  'Advance,  thou  chief  of  pow'r! 

Many  and  brave  our  hands  in  fight, 
And  heroes  dwell  on  Erin's  shore. 

"  '  From  Tura's  windy  walls  they  come, 
Men  fearless,  mighty  and  renowned, 

Who,  at  Cuthullin's  slogan  dread, 
Rush  boldly  to  the  battle  ground!' 

"  Firm  as  a  rock,  the  chief  replied: 
'Who  is  like  Swaran  in  this  land? 

Before  me  heroes  sink  to  earth, 
And  dare  not  in  my  presence  stand. 

"  '  Who  in  the  fight  can  Swaran  meet? 

Who  but  great  Fingal,  king  of  storms! 
On  Malmor's  hill  we  wrestled  hard, 

With  strength  surpassing  mortal  forms: 

"  ( Three  days  successively  we  fought; 

Heroes  with  trembling  marked  the  strife: 
Great  Fingal  boasts  that  Swaran  fell — 

But  Swaran  never  yields  with  life! 

"'To  me  let  dark  Cuthullin  yield: 

I,  strong  as  storms  of  Erin,  stand; 
O'er  yonder  sea  rny  power  extends, 

And  shall  be  felt  throughout  this  land!'  " 

"  Never!"  exclaimed  the  blue-eyed  chief; 

"I  never  yield  to  man! 
Great  shall  Cuthullin's  fame  arise, 

Or  brief  shall  be  his  span! 

"  Go,  son  of  Fithil,  take  my  spear, 

And  strike  brave  Semo's  sounding  shield! 

On  Tura's  rustling  gate  it  hangs; 

Haste — let  it  echo  through  the  field!" 


134  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  hero's  bossy  shield  he  struck, 
And  hills  and  vales  and  rocks  reply; 

Wide  spreads  the  clamour  through  the  wood, 
And  dear  affrighted  swiftly  fly. 

Curach  is  leaping  from  his  rock, 

And  Crngal's  breast  of  snow  beats  high; 

The  son  of  Fava  leaves  the  wood, 
And  all  unto  the  council  hie. 

Said  Rannan,  "  'tis  the  shield  of  war;" 
"Cuthullin's  spear,"  brave  Lugar  said; 

"Oh!  Calmar,  lift  the  sounding  steel, 
And  let  its  force  destruction  spread! 

"  Dread  Puno,  from  thy  tomb  arise! 

From  Cromla's  hill,  oh!  Cairbar,  come! 
Great  Eth,  descend  from  Lena's  stream; 

Haste,  and  avert  green  Erin's  doom! 

"  Oh!  Ca-olt,  as  thou  mo  vest  o'er 

Lone  Mora's  dreary  whistling  heath, 

Stretch  thy  white  side  as  sea-foam  pure, 
Tossed  by  the  dark  wind's  stormy  breath." 

Behold,  they  come!  the  noble  chiefs, 
In  all  the  pride  of  former  wars; 

Their  mighty  souls  with  valour  glow, 
While  from  their  steel  the  lightning  pours. 

Like  streams  from  mountain  side  they  come, 
Each  rushes  roaring  from  his  hill! 

Each  in  his  father's  armour  shines, 
Which  he  with  honour  swears  to  fill. 

Their  eyes  flashed  brightly  with  the  flame 

Of  vengeance  on  their  foes, 
And  rolled  in  fury  as  the  sound 

Of  battle  on  them  rose. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  135 

Gloomy  and  dark  their  heroes  carne, 

Behind  the  bright  array, 
As  gathering  rain-clouds  are  condensed 

When  Heaven's  red  meteors  play. 

The  sound  of  crashing  arms  ascends; 

Unequal  bursts  the  battle  song; 
The  gray  dogs  howl  amid  the  din, 

And  echoing  rocks  the  notes  prolong! 

On  Lena's  dusky  heath  they  stand, 
Like  mist  that  shades  the  autumn  hills; 

In  broken  wreaths  it  settles  high, 
And  thus  diffused  all  ether  fills. 

"  Hail!"  said  Cuthullin,  "  hunters,  hail! 

Sons  of  the  vales  where  sport  the  deer! 
My  friends,  all  hail!  your  aid  we  need; 

Another  sport  is  drawing  near. 

"  Shall  we  assert  our  ancient  rights, 

Or  yield  green  Erin  to  the  foe? 
Speak,  Connal!  speak,  thou  first  of  men, 

Wisdom  doth  from  thy  counsel  flow! 

"Oft  with  proud  Lochlin  hast  thou  fought, 
Now  lift  thy  valiant  father's  spear! 

Alone  thy  strong  and  powerful  arm 

Would  quell  a  host; — thou  canst  not  fear." 

"Cuthullin!"  the  calm  chief  replied, 
"  My  spear  is  sharp,  its  edge  is  keen, 

In  battle  it  delights  to  shine, 

Red  with  the  blood  of  thousands  seen. 

"Although  my  hand  is  bent  on  war, 

Dear  to  my  heart  is  Erin's  peace, 
My  life  to  her  I  here  devote 

Until  these  furious  battles  cease! 


136  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Thou  first  in  Cormac's  war, — behold 
The  sable  fleet  of  Starno's  son! 

Our  coasts  his  mighty  masts  o'ertop, — 
Their  banners  waving  in  the  sun; 

"  His  ships  are  forests  clothed  in  mist, 
His  chiefs  in  battle  strong  and  brave; 

Oh!  son  of  Selma,  sue  for  peace! 
Fingal  himself  the  fight  would  wave." 

"Fly!  basely  fly!  thou  man  of  peace!" 
Said  Calmar  with  the  arm  of  strength, 

"Shrink  back,  weak  Connal,  to  thy  hills, 
Where  spear  was  never  drawn  at  length! 

"Pursue  high  Cromla's  bounding  deer, 
And  chase  the  roe  on  Lena's  plain, 

While  Semo's  blue-eyed,  valiant  son, 
To  fight  proud  Swaran  leads  his  train! 

"  Roar!  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  roar! 

And  scatter  all  their  ranks  of  pride; 
Cuthullin,  in  his  father's  strength, 

Will  pour  out  blood  on  every  side. 

"Rise,  ye  dark  winds  of  Erin,  rise! 

Rage,  whirlwind,  and  uproot  the  grove! 
Let  Calmar  'mid  the  uproar  die, 

And  ride  on  tempest-clouds  above; 

"Be  piecemeal  torn  by  angry  ghosts 
Of  man,  in  mortal  combat  slain; 

If  ere  he  feared  the  din  of  war, 
Or  shunned  the  bloody  battle-plain! 

"If  e'er  the  chace  was  sport  to  him, 
When  he  could  fight  in  battle-field, 

Or  music  in  the  bay  of  dogs, 

Compared  with  Fingal's  sounding  shield!" 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  137 

"  Young  son  of  Matha,"  Connal  said, 

"  My  fame  in  battle  is  but  small, 
But  I  have  fought  at  Fingal's  side, 

And  never  fled  my  country's  call. 

"  Oh!  son  of  Semo,  hear  my  voice! 

Regard  young  Cormac's  ancient  throne! 
Give  wealth,  and  half  the  land  for  peace 

Till  Fingal's  army  join  our  own! 

"But  should  grim  war  be  still  thy  choice, 
This  arm  shall  wield  my  father's  spear, 

'Mid  thousands  shall  my  joy  be  found, 
And  battle's  gloom  my  soul  shall  cheer!" 

"Pleasant  and  sweet  the  din  of  arms," 
Cuthullin  thus  with  warmth  replies, 

"Pleasant  as  thunder  in  the  heavens 
The  sound  of  battle  shall  arise! 

"  Then  gather  all  our  shining  tribes, 

Let  me  behold  the  army  form, 
And  let  them  pass  along  the  heath, 

Bright  as  the  sun  before  the  storm! 

"  But,  where  are  all  rny  warlike  friends, 

To  aid  me  in  this  trying  hour? 
White-bosorned  Cathba,  where  art  thou? 

And  where  Duchomar's  arm  of  power? 

"Fergus,  my  friend!  thou  too  hast  gone 
And  left  me  in  these  days  of  storm; 

Once  thou  wert  first  at  all  our  feasts, 
The  grave  now  shrouds  thy  manly  form! 

"  Hail,  son  of  Rossa!  arm  of  death! 

Like  bounding  roe  thy  step; 
What  cloud  now  shades  the  soul  of  war? 

Where  do  my  heroes  sleep?" 


138  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Four  stones,"  the  valiant  chief  replied, 
"  Rise  on  the  youthful  Cathba's  grave; 

I've  laid  Dtichomar  in  the  earth  — 
That  cloud  in  war,  that  spirit  brave. 

"  Thou,  Cathba!  wert  a  sunbeam  bright! 

Valiant  Duchomar!  thou  a  cloud 
Of  mist,  as  o'er  the  autumn  plain 

It  moves  along,  a  sable  shroud! 

"  Thou,  Morna!  fair  and  beauteous  maid! 

Calm  is  thy  sleep  within  yon  cave; 
Thy  hapless  fate  shall  heroes  weep, 

And  o'er  thy  breast  the  long  grass  wave! 

"Thy  life  was  like  a  meteor's  flash, 

Which  o'er  the  desert  cast  one  gleam; 
The  weary  traveller  marks  its  fall, 

And  mourns  its  flitting,  transient  beam." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Semo's  blue-eyed  son, 

"  How  were  the  chiefs  of  Erin  slain? 
Fell  they  by  Lochlin's  warlike  sons, 

With  heroes  on  the  battle  plain?" 

Solemn  and  sad  the  hero  replied, 

"  By  the  sword  of  Duchomar  he  fell! 
'Neath  the  spreading  shade  of  the  stately  oak, 

Where  the  noisy  streams  do  swell; 

"To  the  caverns  of  Tura  Duchomar  came, 

And  he  spake  to  the  beautiful  maid, 
The  cherished  young  daughter  of  Cormac  the  brave, 

Who  tarried  alone  in  the  shade; 

" '  Oh,  Morna!  fair  Morna,  say,  why  art  thou  here? 

Alone,  in  the  circle  of  stones! 
In  the  cave  of  the  rock,  where  the  storm  murmurs  loud, 

And  the  wind  through  the  old  tree  groans? 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  139 

lil  The  billows  roll  high  on  the  troubled  lake, 

And  dark  are  the  clouds  of  the  sky, 
But  thou  art  pale  as  the  snow  on  the  heath, 

When  drifted  in  mountains  high; 

"  <  Thy  hair  is  like  the  floating  mist 

When  it  curls  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
When  it  shines  in  the  beams  of  the  sinking  sun, 

And  the  lake  is  calm  and  still; 

"  '  Thy  bosom  is  fair  as  the  smooth  white  rock, 

Embedded  in  Branno's  stream, 
Thy  arms  like  pillars  in  Fingal's  Hall, 

So  stately  and  white  they  seem.7 

"  '  From  whence,  Duchomar,  most  gloomy  of  men?* 

The  fair-haired  maiden  replies, 
'  Thy  terrible  brow  is  dark  and  bent, 

And  red  are  thy  rolling  eyes. 

"'Does  Swaran  appear  on  Erin's  coast? 

Duchomar!  what  of  the  foe!' — 
" '  From  the  hill  of  the  dark  brown  hinds  I  come, 

Where  sports  the  bounding  roe! 

"  '  Three  deer  have  I  slain  with  my  bended  yew, 

And  three  with  my  dogs  of  chase, 
One  stately  buck  have  I  slain  for  thee, 

Oh!  deign  my  poor  offering  to  grace! 

u  <  High  were  his  branchy  antlers  tossed, 

And  his  feet  of  wind  did  fly; 
I  have  slain  him  for  thee,  thou  art  dear  to  my  soul, 

For  the  daughter  of  Cormac  I  sighP 

'"Duchomar!'  with  firmness  the  maiden  replied, 

'  Thy  presents  my  soul  doth  spurn; 
Thy  heart  is  as  hard  as  the  sea-girt  rock, 

Thy  love  I  can  never  return! 


140  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

;"Thou  terrible  man  with  the  gloomy  brow! 

Morna's  love  to  young  Cathba  is  plighted, 
In  darkness  and  gloom,  like  a  sunbeam  he  shines, 

Mid  the  storm  which  the  young  trees  had  blighted. 

" '  Hast  thou  seen  my  young  Cathba,  all  lovely  and 
fair? 

On  the  hill  of  the  hinds  he  stays, 
The  daughter  of  Cormac  is  waiting  him  there; 

Canst  thou  tell  me  why  thus  he  delays?' 

"'Long,  long  shall  thou  tarry,'  Duchomar  replied, 
'Full  long  shall  his  coming  be  staid, — 

Oh,  Morna!  behold  this  unsheathed  sword, 
And  mark  the  red  blood  on  its  blade. 

"  <  Here  wanders  the  blood  of  thy  Cathba  brave, 

And  he  fell  by  Branno's  stream! 
On  Cromla's  heights  I  will  raise  his  tomb, 

'Neath  the  pale  moon's  flickering  beam: 

" '  Oh,  turn  on  Duchomar  thine  eyes  of  love; 

As  strong  as  the  storm  is  his  arm! 
Its  grasp  of  power  shall  crush  thy  foes, 

And  thy  loveliness  shelter  from  harm!' 

"With  wildly  bursting  voice  she  cried, 

'  Is  the  son  of  Torman  low? 
Has  he  fallen  upon  his  echoing  hills, 

My  youth,  with  the  breast  of  snow? 

" '  The  first  in  the  chase  of  the  stately  deer, 

To  the  strangers  of  ocean  the  foe, 
The  first  on  the  battle  plains  was  he, 

My  youth  of  the  breast  of  snow! 

"'Duchomar,  thou  dark  and  gloomy  man, 

To  Morna  how  cruel  thy  love! 
Each  drop  of  that  wandering  blood  how  dear, 

Let  the  tears  of  Morna  prove! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  1 

" '  Oh,  give  me  that  sword,  'twas  my  Cathba's  arm 
That  once  wielded  its  shining  blade! 

Thou  art  dark  to  me,  thou  terrible  man, 
Would  Morna  thine  arm  could  have  staid!' 

"  He  gave  the  sword  to  her  streaming  tears, 

And  she  pierced  his  savage  breast! 
He  fell  like  a  bank  of  a  mountain  stream; 

His  voice  was  weak  and  depressed: 

"'In  my  youth  I  am  slain!  the  sword  is  cold; 

Oh,  Morna!  I  feel  it  is  cold 
Oh,  draw  the  steel  from  the  fatal  wound, 

And  my  mantle  around  me  fold! 

"<  Oh  give  me  to  Moina!  the  maid  whose  love 
Would  have  cheered  Duchomar's  life! 

She  will  raise  my  tomb  in  the  dark  green  wood, 
Far  from  the  scenes  of  strife.' 

"  Trembling  and  pale  the  maiden  came, 

In  the  midst  of  her  tears  she  came, 
And  drew  the  sword  from  the  crimson  wound, 

While  horror  shook  her  frame. 

"  He  seized  the  sword  with  a  demon's  strength, 

And  pierced  her  tender  side; 
The  bubbling  blood  gushed  from  the  wound, 

And  she  sank!  brave  Cathba's  pride! 

"  Her  hair  spread  o'er  the  crimson  ground, 

Her  white  arms  stained  with  gore; 
Rolling  in  death  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  rocky  shore!" 

"Peace,"  said  Cuthullin,  "  to  their  souls! 

"  Great  were  those  heroes  in  the  fight, 
On  evening  clouds,  oh!  let  them  ride, 

And  show  their  features  to  my  sight; 


142  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

«  My  soul  shall  then  be  firm  and  bright, 
Mine  arm  like  thunder  of  the  heaven! 

My  steel  shall  deal  destruction  round, 

Like  lightning  which  the  rocks  hath  riven. 

"And,  Morna,  thou  in  all  thy  charms 
Dwell  near  the  window  of  my  rest, 

Be  thou  a  moonbean  in  my  path, 

When  thoughts  of  peace  my  soul  have  blest! 

"Gather  the  strength  of  all  the  tribes! 

Move  on  to  aid  in  Erin's  war! 
The  prowess  of  your  arms  display! 

Attend  my  bright  and  shining  car! 

"  Rejoice  in  great  Cuthullin's  fame; 

Place  by  my  side  three  spears; 
Follow  the  bounding  of  my  steed, 

When  Swaran's  host  appears! 

"  Firm  in  my  friends  shall  be  my  soul, 
When  battle  darkens  round  my  steel; 

With  strength,  their  valour  nerves  my  arms, 
When  fighting  for  my  country's  weal!" 

As  a  stream  of  foam,  from  the  dark  steep 

Of  shady  Cromla's  side, 
When  heavy  thunder  rolls  above, 

And  shakes  Heaven's  arches  wide; 

And  dark-browed  night  descending  fast, 

Obscures  near  half  the  hill, 
Through  breaches  of  the  tempest  dark 

Ghosts  peep  with  voices  shrill; 

So  fierce,  so  vast,  so  terrible, 

Rush'd  on  the  sons  of  strife, 
Their  chief,  the  foremost  in  the  field, 

Was  seen  with  vengeance  rife; 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  143 

He  there,  like  ocean's  mighty  whale, 

By  stormy  waves  pursued, 
Poured  forth  his  valour  like  a  stream, 

Or  like  a  roaring  flood. 

The  sons  of  Lochlin  heard  the  noise, 

As  the  sound  of  a  winter  storm; 
Great  Svvaran  struck  his  bossy  shield, 

And  gave  the  loud  alarm! 

"  What  murmur  rolls  along  the  hill, 
Like  gathered  flies  at  summer  eve? 

'Tis  Erin's  fast  descending  sons! 
Or  rustling  winds  mine  ear  deceive. 

"  Oh!  son  of  Arno,  mount  the  hill, 
View  the  dark  heath  on  every  side!" 

Trembling  he  sped,  but  soon  returned 
With  beating  heart  and  rapid  stride. 

His  words  were  faltering,  broken,  slow, 
And  wildly  rolled  his  dark  blue  eyes: 

•'Chief  of  the  dark  brown  battle  shield, 
The  hosts  of  Erin  plot  surprise! 

"  I  see  the  stream  of  battle  flow, 
The  strength  of  Erin  moves  along; 

The  car,  the  car  of  war  appears, 
The  car  of  Semo's  noble  son! 

«  Behind  'tis  bending  like  a  wave, 
Like  the  sunbeam  dazzling  bright; 

Its  sides  with  jewels  are  embossed, 
Which  shine  like  foam  at  night. 

"  Of  polished  yew  its  beam  is  made; 

Its  seat  the  finest,  whitest  bone; 
Its  sides  are  filled  with  shining  spears; 

The  floor  is  the  hero's  stepping  stone! 


144  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Before  the  right  side  of  the  car 

The  high-bred,  snorting  horse  is  seen; 

Broad-breasted,  proud,  wide-leaping  steed, 
His  warlike  ardour  fierce  and  keen! 

"The  spreading  of  his  mane  above 
Is  like  a  waving  stream  of  smoke; 

Bright  are  his  tall  and  graceful  sides, 
Sulin-Sifadda,  strong  as  oak! 

"  Before  the  left  side  of  the  car 
The  fleet  Dusronnal  bounds  along; 

High-headed,  thin-maned,  snorting  horse, 
Son  of  the  hill,  with  muscles  strong! 

"Bound  by  a  thousand  strong  made  thongs. 

The  stately  car  is  raised  on  high; 
Each  thong  adorned  with  shining  gems, 

All  dazzling  to  the  hero's  eye! 

"  Within  the  car  the  chief  is  seen, 

Cuthullin  is  the  hero's  name; 
Great  Semo's  son,  the  king  of  shells, 

Nations  afar  have  heard  his  fame! 

"His  cheek  is  like  my  polished  yew, 

His  blue  eye,  rolling  bright, 
Beneath  the  dark  arch  of  his  brow, 

Shines  like  a  flame  at  night! 

"Fly,  king  of  ocean,  fly  the  field, 
He  comes  like  storm  along  the  vale! 

His  bushy  hair  streams  in  the  wind, 
He  makes  his  foes  with  terror  pale." 

"When  did  /  fly?"  replied  the  king; 

"  When  fled  I  from  the  battle  spear? 
From  danger's  form  shall  Swarau  shrink? 

Chief  of  the  little  soul,  beware! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  145 

"  The  storm  of  Gormal  firm  I  met, 

When  the  foam  of  my  waves  beat  high! 

I  met  the  storm  of  the  dark-browed  clouds, 
And  now  shall  Swaran  fly? 

"  Did  Fingal  with  his  mighty  arm, 

And  all  his  powerful  host  appear, 
My  valiant  soul  would  still  be  firm — 

Great  Swaran's  heart  shall  never  fear! 

"  My  thousands,  rise!  to  battle  rise! 

Pour  round  me  from  the  echoing  strand; 
Gather  the  bright  steel  of  your  king, 

Strong  as  the  mountains  of  my  land!" 

Like  autumn's  gathering  strength  they  pour 
Forth  from  two  tall  and  echoing  hills; 

Like  two  deep  streams  they  roaring  met, 
While  the  loud  sound  the  forest  fills. 

Lochlin  and  Inisfail  have  met, 

Chief  mixes  stroke  with  valiant  foe; 

Steel  clanging,  sounds  on  bloody  steel, 
And  many  a  hero  is  laid  low! 

The  bubbling  blood  now  smokes  around, 
Strings  murmur  on  the  polished  yew; 

Darts  rush  along  the  cloudy  sky, 
Like  meteors  which  at  night  we  view! 

As  troubled  ocean's  boisterous  noise 
When  rolling  waves  are  mounting  high, 

As  the  last  thundering  peal  of  Heaven, 
The  flame  of  war  came  rushing  by! 

Though  Cormac's  hundred  bards  were  there 

To  give  the  fight  to  tuneful  song, 
Their  hundred  voices  were  too  weak 

To  roll  the  sound  of  death  along! 
10 


146  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Oh,  mourn  in  dust,  ye  sons  of  song! 

Oh,  mourn  the  brave  Sithallan  low; 
High  let  Fiona's  sighs  arise, 

Dark  Svvaran  gave  the  fatal  blow. 

Nor  slept  Cuthullin's  mighty  hand, 
Nor  powerless  was  his  noble  arm; 

His  sword  was  like  the  beam  of  Heaven, 
Spreading  destruction  and  alarm. 

Dusronnal  snorted  as  he  passed, 
Sifadda  bathed  his  hoofs  in  blood, 

The  battle  lay  behind  their  path, 

As  groves  upturned  in  Cromla's  wood. 

Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  winds, 

Oh,  lovely  maid  of  Inistore! 
Bend  thy  fair  head  o'er  yonder  waves 

Which  dash  against  the  sounding  shore. 

Thou  lovelier  than  the  moon's  pale  beam 
When  shining  through  the  cloud  of  night, 

Fairer  than  stars  on  evening's  brow 
Art  thou,  sweet  mourner,  in  my  sight! 

Oh!  he  has  fallen;  thy  youth  is  low; 

Pale  'neath  Cuthullin's  mighty  sword! 
His  worth  and  valour  raised  his  name 

To  rank  with  kings  at  royal  board. 

Trenar,  the  graceful  Trenar  fell, 
His  dogs  are  howling  in  his  halls, 

His  bow  hangs  useless,  all  unstrung, 
Upon  their  lonely  silent  walls. 

As  roll  a  thousand  waves  along, 
So  Swaran's  host  came  rolling  on; 

As  meets  a  rock  a  thousand  waves, 
So  Erin  met  proud  Lochlin's  son. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  147 

Death  raises  all  his  voices  round, 
And  mixes  with  the  sound  of  war; 

Each  chief  a  pillar  darkly  stands, 

Like  beams  of  fire  their  swords  appear. 

But  who  are  those  on  Lena's  heath? 

Their  forms  so  gloomy  and  so  dark — 
They  move  like  clouds  across  the  plain, 

Their  gleaming  steel  at  distance  mark! 

The  little  hills  are  troubled  round, 

The  solid  rocks  tremble  with  fear, 
Rough  ocean's  son  in  converse  close 

With  Erin's  car-borne  chief  is  there! 

Full  many  an  anxious  eye  is  bent 
Upon  those  dark  and  moody  men; 

Till  twilight  covers  Lena's  hill, 

And  shrouds  in  night  the  battle  plain; 

'Twas  on  high  Cromla's  shaggy  side 
That  Dorglass  placed  the  stately  deer, 

The  early  fortune  of  the  chase 
The  morning  of  that  day  of  fear; 

A  hundred  youths  collect  the  heath, 
Ten  warriors  wake  the  sleeping  fire, 

Three  hundred  choose  the  polished  stones, 
To  spread  the  feast  which  they  require. 

Cuthullin,  chief  of  Erin's  war, 

Again  resumed  his  mighty  soul; 
He  leaned  upon  his  beamy  spear 

And  thus  addressed  the  bard  of  old: 

"  Is  this  feast  spread  for  me  alone, 

While  Lochlin's  king  is  on  our  shores? 

The  stranger  must  our  banquet  share, 
Though  on  the  mom  the  battle  roars! 


148  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Carril,  these  words  to  Swaran  bear; 

Tell  him  Cuthullin  gives  his  feast — 
Bid  him  come  listen  to  my  groves, 

And  on  my  green  turf  safely  rest; 

"  For  cold  and  bleak  the  blustering  winds 

Rush  over  the  foam  of  his  seas; 
Here  let  him  praise  the  trembling  harp; 

Refresh  him  'neath  our  shady  trees!" 

Old  Carril  went,  with  softest  voice, 
And  called  the  king  of  dark-brown  shields — 

"  Rise  from  thy  skins,  brave  Swaran,  rise, 
Thou  king  of  groves  and  wide  spread  fields: 

"Cuthullin  gives  the  joy  of  shells, 
Partake  the  feast  of  Erin's  chief;" — 

The  eye  of  Swaran  flashed  with  ire, 
As  muttering  thus  his  answer  brief: 

"Though  all  thy  daughters,  Inisfail, 
Should  stretch  aloft  their  arms  of  snow, 

And  softly  roll  their  eyes  of  love, 
Tell  Erin,  Swaran  would  not  go! 

"  More  pleasant  to  my  warlike  soul 

Is  Lochlin's  stormy  wind, 
It  rushes  o'er  my  own  blue  seas 

And  suits  my  gloomy  mind: 

"Let  dark  Cuthullin  yield  to  me 

King  Cormac's  ancient  throne, 
Or  Erin's  blood  in  streams  shall  flow, 

And  all  their  maidens  mourn!" 

"Sad  is  the  sound  of  Swaran's  voice!" 

Said  Carril,  bard  of  other  days; 
"To  Swaran's  self  alone  'tis  sad — 

It  shall  not  damp  our  lays!" 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  149 

"Come,  Carril!  raise  thy  voice  on  high," 

The  son  of  Semo  loudly  cried, 
"Give  us  the  deeds  of  other  days, 

When  heroes  brave  in  battle  died: 

"Send  thou  the  night  away  in  song, 

Oh!  let  us  have  the  joy  of  grief, 
For  lovely  are  the  songs  of  woe 

Which  Ossian  sung  to  Albion's  chief!" 

Carril  replied,  "  In  other  days, 

Came  ocean's  sons  to  Erin's  land: 
A  thousand  vessels  bound  along, 

And  moor  them  on  our  rocky  strand; 

"  The  sons  of  Inisfail  arose 

To  meet  the  race  of  dark-brown  shields; 
Grudar,  a  stately  youth,  was  there, 

And  Cairbar,  first  in  battle  field; 

"  Long  for  the  spotted  bull  they  strove 
That  lowed  on  Galban's  echoing  plain, 

Each  claimed  the  creature  as  his  own, 
And  each  his  title  would  maintain; 

"  On  Lubar's  grassy  banks  they  strove, 
Young  Grudar  fell  'neath  Cairbar's  steel, 

Cairbar,  that  fierce  and  cruel  chief 

Who  love  or  friendship  ne'er  could  feel; — 

"  He  sought  his  sister,  beauteous  maid, 
The  plighted  bride  of  Grudar's  love; 

Alone  she  raised  the  song  of  grief, 

And  mourned  his  absence  in  the  grove; 

"She  mourned  him  in  the  field  of  blood, 
Her  soft  voice  trembled  in  the  breeze, 

Yet  still  she  hoped  for  his  return, 
And  sought  his  form  amid  the  trees; 


150  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Cairbar  appeared  in  fearful  mood; 

'Take,  Brassolis,  this  shield  of  blood, 
Fix  it  on  high  within  my  hall, 

There  let  it  hang  a  trophy  proud.' 

"Her  soft  heart  beat  against  her  side, 
Pale  and  distracted  forth  she  flew, 

She  found  her  youth  in  all  his  blood, 
The  spirit  fled  that  heart  so  true! 

"And  here,  their  sacred  manes  repose, 
These  lonely  yews  spread  o'er  their  tomb, 

And  oft,  at  midnight's  solemn  hour, 
Their  shadowy  ghosts  are  seen  to  roam!'' 

"Oh,  Carril,  pleasant  is  thy  voice!" 
Said  Erin's  noble,  blue-eyed  chief, 

"  I  love  the  song  of  olderi  time, 
Sweet  to  my  soul  the  tale  of  grief. 

"Come,  strike  the  harp  in  praise  of  her — 
Who  lonely  sits  in  the  misty  isle! 

Sing  of  her  soft  and  winning  grace, 
Sing  of  her  artless,  tender  smile! 

"Bragela,  sunbeam  of  my  love, 
Methinks  I  see  thy  slender  form, 

Thy  garments  floating  on  the  breeze, 
Thy  bosom  throbs,  thy  heart  is  warm; 

"  Methinks  I  see  thee  listening  stand, 
Thy  fair  head  gently  forward  bent, 

Thine  eye  fixed  on  the  distant  wave, 
To  catch  each  sound  thine  ear  intent; 

"But  not  a  glimpse,  not  one  faint  view 

Of  thy  Cnthullin  in  the  gale; 
The  sea  is  rolling  mountain  high, 

The  foam  deceives  thee  for  my  sail. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  151 

"  Retire,  for  it  is  night,  my  love, 

The  dark  winds  sing  in  thy  long  hair, 

Retire  unto  my  lonely  halls 

And  think  upon  thy  hero  there! 

"  Soon  as  the  storm  of  war  is  past, 
He  will  return  to  bless  thy  arms. — 

Oh,  Connal,  speak  of  blood  and  war, 
I  dare  not  think  upon  her  charms!" 

No  second  bidding  Connal  waits, — 

"  I  warn  thee  to  beware  the  foe! 
Haste,  send  thy  troop  of  night  abroad, 

To  guard  each  pass  full  well  they  know; — 

"  Cuthullin,  I  am  still  for  peace! 

Till  Fingal  comes,  that  hero  brave, 
Then,  like  the  sunbeam  o'er  our  fields 

Full  proudly  let  our  banners  wave!" 

The  hero  struck  the  shield  of  war, 
The  warriors  of  the  night  moved  on, 

And  ghosts  of  those  who  lately  fell 

Swam  on  the  clouds,  their  battles  done. 


152  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


ARGUMENT  TO  BOOK  II. 


The  ghost  of  Crugal,  one  of  the  Irish  heroes,  who  was  killed  in 
battle,  appearing  to  Connal,  foretells  the  defeat  of  Cuthullin  in 
the  next  battle,  and  earnestly  advises  him  to  make  peace  with 
Swaran.  Connal  communicates  the  vision,  but  Cuthullin  is  in 
flexible—from  a  principle  of  honour  he  would  not  be  the  first  to 
sue  for  peace,  and  he  resolved  to  continue  the  war.  Morning 
comes:  Swaran  proposes  dishonourable  terms  to  Cuthullin. 
which  are  rejected.  The  battle  begins,  and  is  obstinately  fought 
for  some  time,  until,  upon  the  flight  of  Grumal,  the  whole  Irish 
army  give  way — Cuthullin  and  Connal  cover  their  retreat: 
Carril  leads  them  to  a  neighbouring  hill,  whither  they  are  soon 
followed  by  Cuthullin  himself,  who  descries  the  fleet  of  Fingal 
making  toward  the  coast,  but  night  coming  on,  he  lost  sight  of 
it  again.  Cuthullin,  dejected  after  his  defeat,  attributes  his  ill 
success  to  the  death  of  Ferda,  his  friend,  whom  he  had  killed 
some  time  before.  Carril,  to  show  that  ill  success  did  not  al 
ways  attend  those  who  innocently  killed  their  friends,  introduce? 
the  episode  of  Connal  and  Galvina. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  153 


BOOK  II. 


BY  the  sound  of  the  mountain's  gushing  stream, 

The  weary  Connal  lonely  lay, 
Sheltered  beneath  an  aged  tree 

Whose  branches  in  the  moonbeams  play; 

The  mossy  stone  supports  his  head, 
And  silence  reigns  throughout  the  vale, 

When  shrill  and  clear  the  voice  of  night 
His  wondering  senses  doth  assail! 

The  fearless  hero  raised  his  head 

And  there  beheld  a  sight  of  woe! 
A  dark  red  stream  of  livid  fire 

Rushed  down  upon  the  plain  below; 

'Twas  Crugal  sat  upon  the  stream, 

A  noble  chief  who  fell  in  fight, 
His  face  was  like  the  moon's  pale  beam, 

His  eye  like  fire's  descending  light! 

His  robes  were  of  the  misty  cloud, 
And  dark  the  wound  upon  his  breast, 

The  paleness  of  his  manly  cheek 
A  dreadful  tale  of  woe  expressed! 

"  Oh!  why  so  pale  and  sad,  my  friend?" 
The  mighty  Connal  fearless  cried, 

"Thou  breaker  of  the  bossy  shield, 
Oh!  why  that  wound  upon  thy  side? 


154  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  My  Crugal,  why  so  pale  thy  brow? 

Say!  what  disturbs  thy  wandering  shade?" 
The  ghost  o'er  Connal  stretched  his  hand, 

But  feeble  was  the  sound  he  made; 

"  My  spirit  wanders  on  my  hills, 
On  Erin's  sand  my  corse  doth  lie; 

The  heath  no  more  my  footsteps  press, 
Like  shadows  of  the  mist  I  fly! 

"  Oh,  Connal,  Colgar's  bravest  son! 

I  see  a  gloomy  cloud  of  death, 
Darkly  it  hovers  o'er  the  plain  — 

The  sons  of  Erin  fall  beneath; 

"Oh,  from  this  field  of  ghosts  remove!" 

Then  he  in  majesty  retired, 
Lost  in  the  whistling  hollow  blast 

That  voice  which  sorrow  had  inspired. 

"  Oh,  stay,"  the  mighty  Connal  cried, 
"Oh,  stay,  my  dark-red  injured  friend! 

That  beam  of  heavenly  light  lay  by — 
Oh!  windy  Cromla's  son,  attend! 

"  What  cavern  is  thy  lonely  house? 

On  what  green  hill  dost  thou  repose? 
Shall  we  not  hear  thee  in  the  storm, 

Or  where  the  mountain  streamlet  flows?'* 

The  soft-voiced  Connal  swiftly  rose, 

And  raised  his  powerful  arm; 
In  haste  he  struck  his  bossy  shield, 

And  gave  the  loud  alarm; 

The  son  of  battle  waked  to  war! — 

"Why  comest  thou  through  the  gloom  of  night? 
Had  I  unconscious  thrust  my  spear 

My  friend  had  died,  my  soul's  delight! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  155 

"Speak,  Connal,  son  of  Colgar,  speak! 

Thy  counsel  is  the  sun  of  heaven — 
Oh!  speak — thou  bravest  of  the  brave  — 

For  in  thy  speech  is  wisdom  given." 

"Attend,  Cuthullin!"  Connal  cried  — 

"  Great  Crugal's  ghost  rose  from  the  heath, 

His  voice  was  like  the  distant  stream, 
He  is  the  messenger  of  death! 

"  Of  the  dark  narrow  house  he  speaks, 

Oh!  chief  of  Erin,  sue  for  peace! 
Till  Fingal's  reinforcements  come, 

Our  slender  army  to  increase." 

•'<  Though  twinkling  stars  shone  through  his  form, 

Thy  tale  I  cannot  yet  believe! 
The  hoarse  wind  murmuring,  and  the  storm, 

Thy  watchful  fancy  migh  deceive; 

"  Or,  if  it  was  brave  Crugal's  ghost, 

Could'st  thou  not  force  him  to  my  sight? 

Where  is  the  cave  in  which  he  rests, 
That  son  of  wind,  throughout  the  night? 

"  That  awful  voice  my  sword  might  find 
And  force  his  knowledge  from  his  breast, — 

But  still,  his  knowledge  must  be  small — 
This  day,  his  feet  our  hills  have  pressed; 

"  These  hills,  as  yet,  he  has  not  passed; 

Who  there  could  tell  him  of  our  fall?" 
"  Ghosts  fly  on  clouds,  and  ride  on  winds," 

Said  Connal,  "  when  their  pleasures  call! 

"  Together  in  their  caves  they  rest, 
And  converse  much  of  mortal  men." 

"Of  mortal  men  then  let  them  talk — 
But  ne'er  name  Erin's  chief  again! 


156  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Be  he  forgotten  in  their  cave, 
From  Swaran's  arm  I  will  not  fly! 

If  I  must  fall  my  tomb  shall  rise, 
My  fame  in  Erin  ne'er  shall  die! 

"  The  hunter  oft  shall  shed  a  tear 
Of  sorrow  on  my  mossy  stone, 

And  loved  Bragela  too  will  mourn 
Her  hero  lost,  at  evening  lone! 

"  I  fear  not  death;  to  fly  I  fear! 

For  I  have  fought  by  Fingal's  side, 
The  valour  of  this  arm  have  proved, 

And  he  has  owned  its  strength  with  pride! 

"  Thou  dim,  pale  phantom  of  the  hill, 
Oh,  why  not  show  thyself  to  me? 

Come  on  thy  beam  of  heavenly  light, 
And  say  what  Erin's  fate  will  be! 

"  I  will  not  fly,  thou  feeble  ghost! 

Son  of  the  wild  and  wandering  wind; — 
Brave  Connal!  strike  the  sounding  shield, 

My  warriors  are  not  far  behind; — 

"Though  Fingal,  with  the  noble  race 

Of  the  stormy  isles,  delay, 
Still  we  will  fight,  oh,  Colgar's  son! 

Like  heroes  in  the  fray." — 

The  sound  spreads  wide — the  warriors  rise 
Like  breaking  of  the  rolling  wave; 

Upon  the  heath  they  stand  like  oaks, 
A  host  of  heroes  firm  and  brave! 

Gray  is  high  Cromla's  head  of  clouds, 
Fair  morning  trembles  on  the  deep, 

Slowly  the  blue  mist  passes  by 
And  rises  o'er  yon  rocky  steep. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  157 

"  Rise,"  said  the  king  of  dark-brown  shields, 
"  Ye  who  in  Lochlin's  ships  remain! 

From  war  the  sons  of  Erin  fly, 

Haste  and  pursue  o'er  Lena's  plain! 

"Morla,  proceed  to  Cormac's  hall, 

And  bid  him  yield  to  Swaran's  bands, 

Ere  to  the  tomb  his  proud  heart  sink 

And  silence  reign  throughout  his  lands!" 

Like  sea-fowl  in  a  flock,  they  rose, 

When  waves  expel  them  from  the  shore, 

Their  sound  was  like  a  thousand  streams 
Which  o'er  the  high  rocks  rudely  pour; 

As  the  dark  shades  of  autumn  fly 

Over  the  hills  of  waving  grass, 
So  gloomy,  dark,  successive  came 

The  chiefs  of  Lochlin's  echoing  pass; 

Tall  as  the  stag  of  Morven's  plain, 
The  stately  king  before  them  moved; 

Like  a  red  flame,  upon  the  heath 

Shone  the  bright  shield  he  oft  had  proved; 

'Twas  as  some  weary  traveller  sees 
A  ghost  of  night  upon  the  mound, 

While  sporting  in  the  pale  moon's  beam 
It  dimly  gleams  on  all  around: 

A  blast  from  ocean's  troubled  breast 
Removed  the  settled  misty  cloud; 

Behold!  the  sons  of  Erin  stand, 

A  band  of  heroes  brave  and  proud. 

"  Go,  Morla,  go,"  the  chieftain  cries, 
"And  offer  Swaran's  terms  to  foes; 

If  they  accept,  for  them  'tis  well; 
If  they  refuse,  blood  freely  flows! — 


158  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Offer  the  terms  we  give  to  kings, 
When  nations  bow  them  to  our  name, 

When  valiant  men  have  fallen  in  war, 
And  virgins  weep  their  lovers  slain."  — 

Tall  Morla  came,  the  son  of  swarth, 
Full  stately  strode  the  youthful  chief; 

"Take  Swaran's  peace,"  the  warrior  cried, 
"The  peace  of  kings  who  need  relief; 

"Leave  Erin's  streamy  plains  to  us, — 
Thy  spouse  and  dog  to  us  return — 

Bragela,  beautiful  and  fair, 

She  and  thy  dog  must  both  be  mine; — 

"  Give  these  to  prove  how  weak  thine  arm. 

Then  humbly  live  beneath  our  power, 
Repent  thee  that  thou  raised  the  sword 

'Gainst  Swaran  in  an  evil  hour!" 

"Tell  Swaran,  tell  that  heart  of  pride, 
That  great  Cuthullin  never  yields! 

I'll  give  him  the  dark  rolling  sea, — 
Graves  for  his  men,  in  Erin's  fields; 

"  But  never  shall  his  pride  possess 
The  pleasing  sunbeam  of  my  love, 

I  prize  her  more  than  stars  of  heaven, 
And  my  best  blood  my  faith  shall  prove:- 

"No  deer  shall  fly  on  Lochlin's  hills 
Before  swift-footed  Luath's  path, — 

This  tell  thy  king,  and  let  him  prove 
The  fierceness  of  his  mighty  wrath." 

"Vain  ruler  of  the  rolling  car!" 

Said  Morla, — Lochlin's  favour'd  chief, — 
"  Why  wilt  thou  fight  this  mighty  king, 

Why  art  thou  to  my  counsel  deaf? 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  159 

''His  ships  of  groves  could  take  thine  isle, 

So  little  are  green  Erin's  hills; 
He  rules  the  stormy  waves  around, 

Your  shores  with  his  own  men  he  fills!" 

"In  words,  I  yield  to  Lochlin's  chief, 

My  sword  shall  yield  to  none! 
Erin  shall  own  great  Cormac's  sway 

Until  my  race  is  run; 

"  While  Cormac  and  Cuthullin  live, 

Cormac  is  Erin's  lawful  king; — 
Connal,  hearest  thou  his  boasting  words? 

Then  haste,  thy  host  to  battle  bring! 

"  Spirit  of  Crugal,  from  thy  cloud 

Why  didst  thou  threaten  certain  death? 

The  narrow  house  shall  be  my  doom, 
My  fame  unhurt  by  Swaran's  breath. 

"  The  light  of  my  renown  shall  rise, 
And  future  bards  shall  sing  my  fame, 

Fathers  relate  it  to  their  sons, 

And  great  shall  be  Cuthullin's  name; 

•'<  Ye  sons  of  Erin,  bend  the  bow! 

Exalt  to  heaven  the  shining  spear — 
We'll  rush  in  darkness  on  the  foe, 

Our  stormy  spirits  know  not  fear!" 

Then  dismal,  roaring,  fierce  and  deep, 
The  gloom  of  battle  poured  along, — 

As  mist  that  o'er  the  valley  rolls 
Came  Erin's  sons,  in  courage  strong. 

Stately  in  arms,  Cuthullin  moves, 

Like  a  grim  ghost  before  a  cloud, 
When  meteors  blaze  around  his  form, 

Arid  the  dark  winds  are  whistling  loud. 


160  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Old  Carril  on  the  distant  heath 

Bids  the  shrill  horn  of  battle  sound, 

Then  raises  high  the  voice  of  song, 
Till  every  valley  echoes  round! 

"Where,"  said  the  tuneful  bard  of  old, 
"Where  is  the  brave  young  Crugal  now?" 

He  lies  forgotten  on  the  earth, 

His  youthful  head  in  death  laid  low!  — 

Sad  is  the  spouse  of  Crugal's  love, 
A  youthful  stranger  in  his  hall; 

That  hall  is  now  the  seat  of  grief, 
For  there  she  mourns  her  hero's  fall. 

But  who  is  she,  the  beauteous  maid 
That  darts  like  sunbeam  'midst  the  foe? 

It  is  Degrena,  lovely,  fair, 
The  spouse  of  Crugal  fallen  low! 

Her  long  hair  floats  upon  the  breeze, 
Her  beauteous  eye  is  red  and  wild; 

Her  voice  is  dissonant  and  shrill, 

For  she  is  "hopeless  sorrow's  child!" — 

Pale  is  thy  lover  now,  sweet  maid! 

His  form  sleeps  in  the  hilly  cave; 
I  hear  his  soft  and  feeble  voice, 

As  the  bee  hums  when  breezes  wave; 

But  oh!  Degrena,  thou  dost  fall 
Like  a  bright  cloud  at  early  morn; 

The  sword  of  Lochlin  pierces  deep, 

And  thou  art  low  in  life's  young  dawn! 

Cairbar,  thy  fair  Degrena's  slain! 

The  daughter  of  thy  youthful  love, 
Pride  of  thy  years,  thy  soul's  delight, 

Her  spirit  sails  on  clouds  above! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  161 

Fierce  Cairbar  heard  the  mournful  sound, 
And  rush'd  along  like  ocean's  whale! 

He  saw  his  daughter's  lifeless  corpse, 
And  roared  like  thunder  thro'  the  vale. 

His  spear,  a  son  of  Lochlin  met, 

The  battle  spreads  from  wing  to  wing, 

'Twas  like  a  hundred  rising  winds 
Which  through  a  burning  forest  sing! 


So  loud,  so  ruinous,  so  vast 

The  deadly  carnage  raged  around, 

Cuthullin's  sword  destruction  spread, 
Like  thistle  tops  they  strew  the  ground. 

Proud  Swaran  wasted  Erin's  land, 
And  laid  the  mighty  Cairbar  low! 

Morglan  has  gone  to  his  last  rest, 
And  Caolt  bleeds  with  mortal  blow. 

His  fair  white  breast  is  stained  with  blood, 
And  stretched  in  dust  his  yellow  hair; 

He  oft  had  spread  the  feast  of  joy 
On  that  same  spot  and  revelled  there! 

Here,  often  had  he  tuned  the  harp, 
His  dogs  around  him  leaped  for  joy, 

His  voice  the  youthful  heroes  loved, 
For  Caolt  was  a  noble  boy! — 

Swaran  advances  as  a  stream 

That  wildly  bursts  upon  the  view, 

Removing,  in  its  rapid  course, 

All  that  impedes  its  passage  through; 

But  like  a  mount  Cuthullin  stood, 

That  catches  e'en  the  clouds  of  heaven, 

The  winds  contending  round  its  base, 
While  o'er  its  brow  the  hail  is  driven. 
11 


162  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Thus  firm  in  strength  the  hero  stands 
And  shades  green  Erin's  sons  from  fight, 

Blood  flows  like  fountains  from  the  rock, 
While  spears  and  broad-swords  glitter  bright! 

On  either  wing,  brave  Erin  falls 
Like  snow  before  the  mid-day  sun; 

Lochlin  is  conqueror  on  the  field; 
Full  many  a  chief  his  race  has  run! 

"Oh  sons  of  Erin!"  Grumal  cried, 

"  Why  strive  as  reeds  against  the  wind? 

Fly  to  yon  dark-brown,  distant  hill, 
And  leave  the  bloody  foe  behind!" 

He  spake,  and  flew  across  the  plain! 

Chief  of  the  little  narrow  soul, 
While  heroes'  blood  in  battle  slain 

In  crimson  streams  o'er  Lena  roll. 

High  on  his  car  of  many  gems 

The  noble  chief  of  Erin  stood, 
Dealing  destruction  to  the  foe, 

His  sword  and  garments  dyed  with  blood! 

• 

"  Oh  Connal,  first  of  mortal  men! 

Thyself,  first  taught  this  arm  of  death, 
Though  Erin's  sons  have  basely  fled, 

We'll  fight,  until  our  latest  breath. — 

"Go  Carril,  son  of  other  times, 

Convey  our  friends  to  yon  lone  hill, — 

Here  Connal  arid  myself  will  stand, 

Though  conquered,  we  will  save  them  still!" 

The  car  of  gems  brave  Connal  mounts, 
Their  shields  are  like  the  darken'd  moon, 

That  daughter  of  the  starry  skies, 
Warning  frail  man  of  dreadful  doom; 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  163 

Sitfadda  panted  up  the  hill, 
And  Stronnal,  high  bred,  fiery  steed: 

Like  waves  behind  the  mighty  whale, 
The  furious  foe  rushed  on  with  speed! 

Now,  on  high  Cromla's  rising  side, 

Stood  Erin's  few  arid  sorrowing  sons; — 

Like  trees  when  blasted  by  the  flame 
Which  the  rude  whirlwind  hurries  on: 

There,  distant,  withered,  dark,  they  stand, 

All  leafless  mid  the  stormy  gale, 
Though  their  firm  trunks  unhurt  appear, 

Their  leaves  are  scatter'd  through  the  vale. 

Cuthullin  stood  beside  an  oak, 

His  red  eye  rolled  in  silence  round. 

Behold!  the  scout  of  ocean  comes, 

Welcome  once  more  the  well  known  sound! 

"  The  ships,  the  ships,"  the  warrior  cried, 
The  strong  ships  of  the  lovely  isles! 

Great  Fingal  comes!  the  first  of  men, 
To  share  our  fate,  assist  our  toils; 

"The  waves  foam  high  before  his  prow, 
His  masts  like  groves  in  yonder  cloud;" 

"Blow."  said  Guthullin,  "  blow  ye  winds 
Oh  higher  rise,  blow  still  more  loud! 

"  Oh  to  the  death  of  thousands  come, 

Great  Selma's  noble,  mighty  king! 
Thy  sails  are  like  the  morning  clouds, 

Thy  ships  such  heavenly  light  do  bring! 

"A  pillar  of  fire  thou  dost  appear 

Beaming  on  the  dark  world  by  night! — 

Dear  are  our  friends  in  hours  of  grief, 

They  cheer  the  heart  with  prospects  bright. 


164  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  But  night  is  gathering  fast  around — 
Where  are  the  ships  of  Fingal  now? 

Here,  let  the  hours  of  darkness  pass; 

Oh,  for  a  moon  on  heaven's  broad  brow!" 

The  winds  came  roaring  through  the  woods, 
Adown  the  rock  the  torrent  pours, 

Rain  gathers  fast  round  Cromla's  head, 

The  threatening  clouds  descend  in  showers; 

Sad,  by  the  side  of  yon  lone  stream, 
Whose  voice  is  echoed  by  a  tree, 

The  sorrowing  chief  of  Erin  sits, 
Pondering  on  what  his  fate  may  be; 

Connal,  the  son  of  Colgar,  there, 

And  Carril  too,  of  other  times, 
Lament  the  fate  of  Erin's  wars, 

Past  scenes  revolving  in  their  minds: 

"  Cuthullin,  oh  ill-fated  chief!" 
The  son  of  Semo  mournful  cried, 

"Ill-fated, ever  is  this  hand, 

Which  slew  my  friend,  my  joy,  my  pride! 

"  Oh  Ferda!  Damman's  noble  son, 

I  loved  thee  ever  as  myself, 
To  save  thee  once  I  would  have  died, 

Or  sacrificed  my  all  of  wealth!" 

"  Well  I  remember,"  Connal  said, 
"Bold  Damman's  son,  the  noble  chief! 

His  form  was  comly,  fair  and  tall, 
His  life  was  as  the  rainbow,  brief. 

"  Chief  of  a  hundred  hills  he  came 

From  Albion's  beauteous  isle, 
In  Muri's  halls  he  learned  the  sword 

And  won  Cuthullin's  smile. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  165 

"  Together  in  the  chase  we  moved, 
One  bed  was  ours  upon  the  heath, 

Dugala  in  her  beauty  came 

And  won  his  love,  the  noble  chief. 

"Though  she  was  Cairbar's  wedded  spouse, 

And  fair  as  morning's  early  ray, 
With  pride  her  scornful  heart  was  filled; 

She  sought  young  Ferda  to  betray; 

"The  white-armed  maid,  to  Cairbar  said, 

t  Give  me  the  half  of  all  thy  herd, 
I'll  rest  within  thy  halls  no  more! 

Young  Ferda  is  by  me  preferred.' 

"'Divide  the  herd!'  dark  Cairbar  cried, 
1  Cuthullin,  come,  divide  my  herd, 

Within  thy  breast  strict  justice  reigns, 
We  will  be  governed  by  thy  word.' 

"  When  just  division  had  been  made, 
One  noble,  snow-white  bull  remained, 

And  to  the  dark-brow'd,  injured  chief 
I  gave  the  bull,  himself  had  trained; 

"  Dugala's  fiery  wrath  arose: 

'  Rise,  son  of  Damman!'  said  the  fair, 

'My  inmost  soul  Cuthullin  pains, 
I  cannot  rest  while  he  is  near, — 

"'Oh,  he  must  die  a  bloody  death, 
Or  Lubar's  stream  shall  roll  o'er  me! 

My  ghost  shall  wander  near  thy  rest, 
And  morn  and  night  shall  harass  thee; 

"'The  blood  of  Erin's  chief  pour  out, 
Or  pierce  this  Avhite  and  heaving  breast, 

My  wounded  pride  cannot  be  healed 
Till  low  in  death1  Cuthullin  rest!' 


166  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"'Dugala!'  said  the  fair-hair'd  youth, 
'How  shall  I  slay  my  dearest  friend? 

He  shares  my  love,  my  secret  thoughts, 
And,  with  his  life,  would  mine  defend.' 

"  Three  days  she  weeps  before  the  youth; 

On  the  fourth  morn,  her  tears  succeed; 
1  Dugala,  cease,'  he  frantic  cried, 

'  I'll  fight  my  friend,  though  foul  the  deed; 

"  <0h  may  I  fall  by  his  right  arm! 

For  I  cannot  survive  his  loss; 
To  wander  on  the  hill  alone, 

Or  on  his  grave-stone  view  the  moss!' 

"We  fought  on  Muri's  shady  plains, 
Our  swords  the  bloody  wound  avoid, 

They  slide  on  helmets  made  of  steel, 

Or  shields,  which  force  of  blow  destroyed: 

"Dugala,  with  an  artful  smile, 
To  Damman's  son  again  replied, 

'Thy  feeble  arm  cannot  sustain 
That  weight  of  steel  upon  thy  side! 

"  'Thy  years  are  tender,  yield  thee  love, 
To  proud  Cuthullin  yield  the  sword; 

He  is  a  rock  on  Malmor's  height, 
Oh  yield  thee!  he  will  grace  accord!' 

"The  tear  was  in  his  youthful  eye, 
With  faltering  step  to  me  he  came 

'  Cuthullin,  raise  thy  bossy  shield! 
Defend  thy  life,  defend  thy  fame! 

"'  It  is  thy  friend,  thy  chosen  friend 
Who  calls  on  thee  to  raise  the  swordj 

My  soul  is  bursting  with  my  grief, 
But  I  must  stay  thee,  on  my  word!' 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  167 

"As  wind  in  rifted  rock,  I  sighed, 

And  lifted  high  the  edge  of  steel; 
My  friend,  my  dearest  friend  is  dead! 

And  this  rough  hand,  the  blow  could  deal." 

"  Oh  mournful  is  thy  tale  my  son," 

Said  Carril  of  the  tuneful  song, 
"  My  soul  rolls  back  the  stream  of  time, 

To  other  years  when  life  was  young; 

"  Oft  have  I  heard  of  Comal's  fate, 
Who  slew  the  friend  he  dearly  loved, 

And  though  with  grief  his  heart  was  filled, 
His  sword  hath  oft  victorious  proved! 

"Comal,  was  son  of  Albion's  isle, 

A  powerful  hunter  on  her  hills, 
His  deer  drank  of  a  thousand  streams, 

His  dogs'  loud  bay  each  cavern  fills; 

"Mild  was  his  face  as  early  youth, 
His  hand,  the  death  of  heroes  proved, 

Brave  Conloch's  daughter  fair,  he  saw, 
He  saw,  and  when  he  saw,  he  loved. 

"She  was  a  sunbeam  in  his  path, 
Her  hair  was  dark  as  raven's  wing, 

Her  dogs  were  taught  the  warlike  chase, 
Graceful  her  bow  was  taught  to  spring. 

"Young  Comal  won  her  artless  heart, 
Frequent  their  tender  glances  met, 

Their  course  in  the  wild  chase  was  one, 
And  oft  in  shady  groves  they  sat; 

'•'Dark  Grumal  loved  the  blooming  maid, 

The  chief  of  gloomy  Ardven  he, 
He  watched  her  lone  step  on  the  heath, 

Her  light  fair  form  and  heart  of  glee; 


168  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  One  day  when  wearied  by  the  chase, 
Young  Cornal  led  his  faithful  love 

To  a  cool  seat  in  Rorian's  cave, 

His  favourite  haunt  when  forth  he  roved; 

"  Its  sides  were  hung  with  warlike  arms, 
A  hundred  shields  of  thongs  were  there, 

A  hundred  helms  of  sounding  steel 
Adorned  its  walls  with  martial  care: — 

"'Thou  light  of  Ronan's  lonely  cave! 

A  deer  appears  on  Mora's  brow, 
I  go,  but  I  will  soon  return, 

Rest  here  my  love,  nor  fear  the  foe.' 

"He  sought  the  deer  on  Mora's  brow; 

The  maiden  fain  his  love  would  prove, 
With  armour  round  she  clothed  her  sides, 

Then  forward  strode  to  meet  her  love; 

"  He  thought  it  was  his  mortal  foe, 
His  throbbing  bosom  bounded  high, 

The  colour  fled  his  manly  cheek, 

And  darkness  dimmed  his  brilliant  eye. 

"He  drew  the  bow,  the  arrow  flew! 

Galbina  fell  all  steeped  in  blood, 
"He  wildly  ran  and  loudly  called 

On  Conloch's  daughter  through  the  wood: 

"No  answer  in  the  lonely  rock! 

'Where  art  thon?  oh  my  love  so  true:' 
He  saw  at  length  her  heaving  breast 

Beat  round  the  arrow  which  he  threw! 

«<0h!  fair  Galbina!  is  it  thou?' 

He  sank  upon  her  bleeding  breast, 

The  hunters  found  the  hapless  pair, 
And  laid  her  in  the  grave  to  rest. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  169 

"Long  Comal  walked  the  lonely  hill, 

Around  the  dwelling  of  his  love, 
At  length  the  fleet  of  ocean  came, 

To  calm  his  grief,  he  vainly  strove; 

"  He  fought,  and  conquered  on  the  field, 
He  sought  for  death  in  every  land, 

He  threw  away  his  dark-brown  shield; — 
An  arrow  laid  him  on  the  strand! 

"He  sleeps  beside  his  murdered  love! 

At  the  noise  of  the  sounding  surge, 
The  grass  waves  o'er  their  lonely  tombs 

While  the  whirlwind  chants  their  dirge." 


170  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 


ARGUMENT  TO  BOOK  III. 

Cuthullin,  pleased  with  the  story  of  Carril,  insists  with  that  bard 
for  more  of  his  songs.  He  relates  the  actions  of  Fingal  in 
Lochlin,  and  death  of  Aggandecca,  the  beautiful  sister  of 
Swaran.  He  had  scarce  finished  when  Calmar  the  son  of 
Matha,  who  had  advised  the  first  battle,  came  wounded  from 
the  field,  and  told  them  of  Swaran's  design  to  surprise  the  re 
mains  of  the  Irish  army.  He  himself  proposes  to  withstand 
singly  the  whole  force  of  the  enemy,  in  a  narrow  pass,  till  the 
Irish  should  make  good  their  retreat.  Cuthullin,  touched  with 
the  gallantry  of  Calmar,  resolves  to  accompany  him,  and  orders 
Carril  to  carry  off  the  few  that  remained  of  the  Irish.  Morning 
comes.  Calmar  dies  of  his  wounds,  and  the  ships  of  the  Cale 
donians  appearing,  Swaran  gives  over  the  pursuit  of  the  Irish, 
and  returns  to  oppose  Fingal's  landing.  Cuthullin.  ashamed 
after  his  defeat  to  appear  before  Fingal,  retires  to  the  cave  of 
Tura.  Fingal  engages  the  enemy,  and  puts  them  to  flight,  but 
the  coming  on  of  night  makes  the  victory  not  decisive.  The 
king,  who  had  observed  the  gallant  behaviour  of  his  grandson 
Oscar,  gives  him  advice  concerning  his  conduct  in  peace  or 
war.  He  recommends  to  him  to  place  the  example  of  his  fathers 
before  his  eyes,  as  the  best  model  for  his  conduct,  which  intro 
duces  the  Episode  concerning  Fainasolis,  the  daughter  of  the 
King  of  Craca,  whom  Fingal  had  taken  under  his  protection  in 
his  youth.  Fillan  and  Oscar  are  dispatched  to  observe  the 
motions  of  the  enemy  by  night.  Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni,  desires 
the  command  of  the  army  in  the  next  battle,  which  Fingal  pro 
mises  to  give  him. 

Some  general  reflections  of  the  poet  close  the  third  day. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  171 


BOOK   III. 


"  SWEET  are  the  words  of  tuneful  song/' 
Said  Semo's  noble,  blue-eyed  son  — 

"I  love  the  tales  of  other  times, 
I  love  to  hear  of  battles  won; 

"They  fall  like  dew  upon  my  soul, 

When  morning  streaks  the  east  with  gold; 

Oh  Carril,  strike  the  sounding  harp, 
And  give  us  Selma's  song  of  old; 

"That  song  which  echoed  through  our  halls 
To  please  great  Fingal,  King  of  shields, 

Who  joyed  to  hear  his  father's  name 

Ring  with  applause  throughout  our  fields." 

Fingal,  thou  soul  of  battle!  brave, 

Thy  youthful  arm  was  trained  to  war; 

Proud  Lochlin  proved  its  early  strength, 
And  distant  heroes  wondering  saw; 

They  smiled,  to  see  his  blooming  face 
While  death  was  in  his  powerful  hand, 

His  warriors  roared  like  thousand  streams, 
A  strong,  a  valiant  youthful  band! 

Great  Lochlin's  king  they  took  in  war, 
And  then,  to  him  his  ships  restored; — 

With  pride  his  haughty  soul  was  swelled, 
And  deep  deceit  was  their  reward!— 


172  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  mighty  Fingal's  arm  alone, 

Once  overcame  proud  Lochlin's  chief; 

Revenge  sat  brooding  o'er  his  soul, 
And  he  had  vowed,  the  hero's  death! 

"  Go,  gray-hair'd  Snivan,"  Starno  said, 

"  Haste  thee  to  Ardven's  sea-beat  strand, — 

Tell  Selma's  king  that  he  is  fair, 

'Mid  thousands,  none  before  him  stand! 

«  My  daughter  is  the  loveliest  maid 
That  ever  heaved  a  breast  of  snow, 

Her  arms  are  white  as  foaming  waves — 
Generous  and  warm  her  feelings  glow; 

"  I'll  give  this  treasure  to  his  arms, 
If  he  will  come  to  Starno's  Hall; 

His  bravest  heroes  in  his  train; 
To  grace  our  feast,  invite  them  all!" 

Snivan  arrived  at  Selma's  Hall, 

The  fair-haired  Fingal  welcome  gave, 

His  kindling  soul  flew  to  the  maid, 
While  swiftly  bounding  o'er  the  wave: 

"Welcome,"  said  Lochlin's  dark-brown  chief, 
"Thrice  welcome,  rocky  Morven's  king! 

Welcome  his  heroes,  brave  in  fight! 
Now  let  the  joyful  sports  begin. 

"  Three  days  ye'll  feast  within  my  halls, 
Three  days  my  bristly  boars  pursue, 

Your  prowess  shall  delight  the  maid, 
Her  secret  sigh  shall  be  for  you!" 

Starno  designed  their  speedy  death, 

And  gave  the  royal  feast, 
But  Fingal  kept  his  painful  doubts 

Confined  within  his  breast. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  173 

He  girt  his  arms  of  steel  around 

His  tall  majestic  form, 
Determined,  let  come  weal  or  woe, 

He  would  abide  the  storm! 

The  voice  of  sprightly  mirth  arose, 

The  trembling  harps  of  joy  were  strung, 

They  praised  the  heroes  of  the  land, 
The  heaving  breast  of  love  was  sung! 

Ullin,  great  Fingal's  bard,  was  there, 
He  sung  the  maid  of  Lochlin's  praise, 

And  Morven's  high  descended  chief, 
The  chorus  to  the  skies  they  raise! 

The  maiden  heard  the  lofty  strain, 

And  left  her  hall  of  secret  sighs, 
In  all  her  beauty  forth  she  came, 

With  rapture  beaming  in  her  eyes. 

Oh!  she  was  fair  as  yonder  moon, 

When  bursting  from  the  eastern  cloud, 

Graceful  her  light  elastic  step; 

She  saw  the  youth  amid  the  crowd, — 

His  was  her  bosom's  secret  sigh, 

She  blest  the  chief  of  Morven's  lands, 

Her  stolen  glances  oft  she  threw, 

While  shrouded  from  their  view  she  stands! 

At  length  the  third  eventful  morn 

Shone  bright  on  Starno's  fields, 
When  forward  moved  dark  Lochlin's  chief, 

And  Fingal  king  of  shields; 

Till  noon  they  sported  in  the  chase, 
And  Selma's  spear  was  red  with  blood, 

He  paused  to  breathe  his  panting  steed, 
When  by  his  side  the  maiden  stood: 


174  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Her  soft  blue  eyes  were  filled  with  tears, 
With  the  sweet  voice  of  love  she  came 

To  warn  the  hero  of  his  fale, 

And  save  her  father's  blasted  fame: 

"Oh  Fingal!  high  descended  chief! 

Trust  not  to  Starno's  heart  of  pride, 
Within  yon  wood  his  warriors  lie, 

Prepared  to  spread  destruction  wide; 

"But  oh!  remember,  warrior  chief, 
Remember  Aggandecca's  love, 

Oh!  save  me  from  my  father's  wrath! 
And  thus  thy  truth  and  virtue  prove." 

With  unconcern  the  youth  passed  on, 
His  valiant  heroes  by  his  side, 

The  sons  of  death  fell  by  his  arm, 
And  freely  flowed  the  crimson  tide. 

Before  proud  Starno's  lofty  halls, 
The  bloody  sons  of  chase  convene; 

"Bring  hither,"  said  the  stormy  king, 
"  The  erring  daughter  of  our  queen; 

"  Bring  Aggandecca  to  her  love, 

His  hand  is  red  with  Lochlin's  blood, 

She  is  a  traitress  to  our  cause, 

And  she  shall  die  for  Lochlin's  good!" 

She  came  with  red  and  tearful  eyes, 
She  came  with  looselv  flowing  hair, 

Her  white  breast  heaved  with  broken  sighs, 
Her  careless  robes  all  speak  despair! 

Fierce  Starno  pierced  her  tender  side; 

She  fell  like  snow-wreath  from  the  rock! 
Great  Fingal  eyed  his  warlike  chiefs, 

Who  stood  astounded  at  the  shock! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  175 

Enraged,  his  warriors  flew  to  arms, 
The  gloom  of  battle  roared  around, 

The  sons  of  Lochlin  fled,  or  died, 
And  dreadful  was  the  echoing  sound. 

Safe  in  his  ship,  sad  Fingal  closed 

The  relics  of  his  murdered  love; 
Her  tomb  ascends  on  Ardven's  plains, 

The  maid  who  died  her  faith  to  prove! 

Here  Carril  ceased  his  mournful  song, 
"Blest  be  her  soul!"  Guthullin  said, 

"And  blessed  be  the  mouth  of  song, 
Which  sounds  the  praises  of  the  dead. 

"  Strong  was  the  arm  of  Fingal's  youth, 
Strong  doth  his  arm  of  age  remain, 

Lochlin  shall  fall  before  the  chief, 
When  in  his  strength  he  comes  again! 

"  Oh  moon!  arise  from  'neath  thy  cloud, 
And  light  his  white  sails  o'er  the  wave, 

Spirits  who  ride  o'er  heaven's  broad  arch, 
Preserve  from  harm  the  hero  brave!" 

Thus  spake  Cuthullin,  chief  of  men, 
At  the  sound  of  the  mountain  stream; 

When  Calmar  drenched  in  blood  appeared, 
Trembling,  and  slow  he  came; 

Upon  his  bended  spear  he  leaned, 

His  arm  hung  feebly  at  his  side, 
But  strong  the  youthful  hero's  soul, 

For  he  was  Erin's  boasted  pride. 

"Oh  son  of  Matha!"  Connal  cried, 

"  Thou'rt  dearly  welcome  to  thy  friends, 

Why  heaves  that  sigh  within  thy  breast? 
Oh  tell  us  what  thy  grief  portends? 


176  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Calmar,  thou  bravest  of  the  brave, 
Why  tremble?  speak!  it  is  not  fear?" 

"  For  me  the  pointed  steel  hath  charms, 
Which  brighten  more  when  danger's  near. 

"  For  I  was  bred  in  battle-field, 
My  valiant  fathers  never  feared; 

Cormar  was  first  of  all  my  race, 
And  danger's  post  he  ever  shared; 

"  He  sported  through  the  stormy  waves, 
His  black  skiff  bounded  o'er  the  sea, 

And  travelled  on  the  wings  of  wind, 
Regardless  what  his  fate  might  be! 

"A  spirit  once  embroiled  the  night, 
Seas  swell  and  echoing  rocks  resound, 

Winds  drive  along  the  dark-browed  clouds, 
On  fire-wings  fly  ihe  lightning  round! 

"  He  feared,  and  hasted  to  the  land, 
Then  blushed  that  he  had  feared  at  all; 

Then  rushed  again  among  the  waves  — 
Regardless  of  the  threatening  squall! 

"  Three  youthful  heroes  guide  the  bark, 
With  sword  unsheathed,  he  fearless  stood, 

And,  as  the  low  hung  vapour  passed, 
He  caught  it  curling  on  his  sword! 

"He  pierced  its  bloodless  form  with  steel, 
The  son  of  wind  forsook  the  air; 

The  moon  returned  in  glory  bright, 
And  every  star  of  night  shone  clear! 

"  Such  was  the  boldness  of  my  race! 

Calmar  is  what  his  fathers  were; 
Danger  will  fly  the  uplifted  sword, 

They  best  succeed,  who  boldly  dare! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  177 

"  Listen,  ye  sons  of  Erin's  isle! 

Retire  from  Lena's  heath  of  blood; 
Collect  the  remnant  of  our  friends, 

And  join  great  Fingal's  conquering  sword; 

"I  hear  the  sound  of  Lochlin's  arms, 
Advancing  through  the  silent  night; 

Oh!  haste  thee  to  the  sea-beat  shore, 
I  will  remain  and  join  the  fight; 

"  My  voice  shall  roar,  as  if  a  host 

Of  heroes  were  behind  me  cast, 
But,  Semo's  son  remember  me, 

Remember  Calmar  to  the  last, — 

"  When  Fingal's  sword  has  won  the  field, 
Oh,  place  me  by  some  humble  stone, 

That  future  time  may  hear  my  fame, 
And  friends  rejoice  in  my  renown! 

"Let  Calmar's  mother  weep  with  joy, 
When  bards  shall  sound  abroad  my  name; 

And  let  her  fond  maternal  heart, 
Exult  with  pride  in  Calmar's  fame." 

"No  Calmar!"  brave  Cuthullin  said, 

"  I  will  not  leave  thee  here  alone, 
My  joy  is  in  unequal  fight — 

I'll  shield  thee  when  the  battle's  done. 

"  Connal,  do  thou  and  Carril  go! 

Take  with  you  Erin's  mournful  sons! 
And  when  the  rage  of  war  is  past, 

Search  for  our  forms  among  these  stones; 

"  For  near  this  tall,  this  blasted  oak, 
My  mind  misgives  me,  we  shall  fall; 

Here  will  the  stream  of  battle  pour, — 
The  tale  will  many  a  heart  appal! 


178  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Haste,  Fithil's  son!  with  flying  speed, 
Haste  and  o'ertake  the  conquering  chief, 

Relate,  to  Fingal,  Erin's  fall, 
And  bid  him  qome  to  our  relief!" 

Morning  is  gray  on  Cromla's  hill, 
And  ocean's  sons  ascend  the  height, 

Calmar  stood  forth  to  meet  the  foe, 
Pride  kindling  in  his  eye  of  light; 

The  youthful  chief  was  wan  and  pale — 
He  leaned  upon  his  father's  spear: 

How  will  his  noble  mother  grieve 
The  sad  catastrophe  to  hear! 

Lovely  Alcletha!  waning  now, 

With  weight  of  sorrow  and  of  years, 

How  will  her  bosom  bear  the  blow? 
In  Lara's  Hall  she  sits  in  tears. 

But  slowly  now  the  hero  falls, 
Like  a  tree  blasted  in  the  vale; 

Firmly  Cuthullin  stands  alone, 
No  fears  his  noble  heart  assail! 

Now  from  the  mist  of  ocean  came 

The  white-sailed  ships;  great  Fingal's  fleet: 

Like  some  tall  grove  their  masts  appear, 
The  warriors  loud  their  landing  greet; 

Swaran  beheld  them  from  the  hill, 

And  hasted  to  annoy  the  foe, 
While  Erin's  lonely,  mournful  chief, 

Is  silent,  and  o'erwhelmed  with  woe. 

Dragging  his  long  and  pointed  spear — 
Now  bending,  weeping,  slow  and  sad, 

Cuthullin  sank  in  Cromla's  wood, 

And  mourned  his  friends  in  battle  dead; 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  179 

The  face  of  Morven's  king  he  feared; 

How  could  he  meet  that  noble  eye, 
Which  oft  had  glanced  upon  his  form, 

'Mid  shouts  of  victory  rising  high? 

"  Where  are  the  chiefs  of  Erin's  race — 
They  that  were  cheerful  in  my  hall? 

No  more  I  meet  them  on  the  heath; 
No  more  they  hear  Cuthullin's  call; 

"  Pale,  silent,  on  his  bloody  bed 

Now  lies  each  much  lamented  friend, 

Oh!  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead 
To  calm  my  soul  your  influence  lend! 

"  Oh!  come  in  clouds  on  the  flying  gale, 

Speak  to  me  in  the  breezes  light, 
When  the  rustling  tree  by  Tura's  cave 

Reechoes  to  the  voice  of  night; 

"  There,  Semo's  son  shall  lie  unknown, 
Mourn  oh!  Bragela  mourn  me  dead! 

No  bard  shall  sound  my  deeds  in  arms, 
My  light  is  querich'd,  my  fame  has  fled!" 

Great  Fingal  in  his  mighty  ship, 

Stretched  his  bright  lance  beyond  his  head, 
His  flaming  spear  gleams  in  his  hand, 

And  loud  resounds  his  warrior  tread. 

The  king  beheld  the  bloody  plain, 

"  'Tis  past,"  he  cried,  "  the  battle's  o'er! 

Lonely  and  sad  is  Lena's  heath, 
Mournful  the  distant  ocean's  roar; 

"Low  have  the  valiant  hunters  fallen! 

The  son  of  Semo  is  no  more; 
Ryno,  and  Fillan,  rise  my  sons, 

And  sound  my  horn  from  shore  to  shore! 


180  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Ascend  yon  steep  and  rugged  hill, 
And  call  the  children  of  the  foe, 

Shout  with  your  father's  powerful  voice, 
Oh  haste  thee  Fillan!  Ryno,  go!" 

Like  lightning  Ryno  gleam'd  along, 

Dark  Fillan  rushed  like  autumn's  cloud; 

O'er  Lena's  heath  the  notes  resound 
And  Lochlin  heard  the  echo  loud! 

Like  the  rough  ocean's  roaring  tide 
So  dark,  so  sudden,  and  so  strong, 

Across  the  shore  with  rapid  stride, 
The  sons  of  Lochlin  pour  along! 

King  Swaran,  in  their  front  appears, 
In  all  the  dismal  pride  of  arms — 

Wrath  sits  upon  his  scowling  brow, 
The  fire  of  rage  his  bosom  warms; 

Fingal  beheld  proud  Starno's  son; 

The  thoughts  of  Aggandecca  rose, 
For  Swaran,  with  the  tears  of  youth, 

Had  mourned  his  deep  and  early  woes. 

He  sent  the  bard  of  tuneful  song 
To  bid  him  to  the  feast  of  shells. 

For  pleasant  on  his  sorrowing  soul 
The  memory  of  his  first  love  dwells. 

Ullin  advanced  with  aged  step, 

And  spoke  to  Starno's  haughty  son, 

"Oh  thou!  whose  dwelling  is  afar, 
In  Fingal's  mighty  name  I  come! 

"  Come  to  the  royal  feast  of  shells, 
And  pass  the  day  in  peace  and  rest, 

To-morrow's  dawn  shall  view  the  fight, 
And  put  our  courage  to  the  test." 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  181 

•'  To-day!"  said  Starno's  wrathful  son, 
"  To-day  we  break  the  sounding  shield, 

To-morrow  eve,  my  feast  I  spread! 
Fingal  shall  sink  upon  the  field." 

"To-morrow  let  his  feast  be  spread," 
Said  Fingal,  with  a  scornful  smile, 

"  To-day  my  own,  my  noble  sons 

We  drive  proud  Swaran  from  this  isle! 

"  Ossian,  stand  first  near  Fingal's  arm, 
Gaul,  lift  on  high  thy  wrathful  sword, 

Brave  Fergus,  bend  thy  crooked  yew, 
And  strike  the  foeman  at  the  word; 

"  Let  your  broad  shields  like  moon-beams  shine, 

Equal  my  deeds  on  battle  plain, 
Brandish  your  spears  amid  the  foe, 

And  imitate  your  father's  fame!" 

'Twas  as  an  hundred  veering  winds, 

As  the  streams  of  a  hundred  hills, 
As  clouds  successive  fly  o'er  heaven, 

As  the  wave  the  ocean  fills; 

So  vast,  so  terrible  the  rush 

Of  the  warriors  on  the  heath, 
Their  dying  groans  spread  o'er  the  hill, 

Like  the  gathering  cloud  of  death; 

Fingal  rushed  on  in  all  his  strength, 

Fierce  as  the  spirit  of  the  storm, 
When  whirlwinds  tear  the  stately  oaks, 

To  view  his  sons  in  battle  form; 

Now  dimly  through  the  moon-beams  seen, 
Largely  he  strides  from  hill  to  hill, 

And  powerful  was  my  father's  hand 
Which  this  good  sword  aspired  to  fill! 


182  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

He  thought  upon  the  days  of  youth, 
He  thought  upon  his  murdered  love, 

He  saw  with  pride  his  youthful  sons 
Who  fiercely  to  the  battle  move; 

Ryno  was  like  a  stream  of  fire, 
Dark  is  the  brow  of  valiant  Gaul! 

Fergus  rushed  forth  with  feet  of  wind, 
And  Fillan  rose  in  stature  tall; 

Then  Ossian's  heart  exulted  high, 
In  the  strength  of  his  noble  sire, 

My  sword  gleam'd  brightly  in  my  hand, 
My  bosom  glowed  with  fire; 

My  locks  were  not  then  gray  with  age, 
And  firm  was  this  now  trembling  hand, 

These  darkened  orbs  then  brightly  shone, 
Well  could  I  wield  the  battle  brand. 

But  how  shall  I  describe  the  scene? 

The  deeds  of  heroes,  how  relate? 
When  Fingal,  burning  in  his  wrath, 

Pressed  Swaran  on  to  meet  his  fate? 

Groans  swelled  on  groans,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Till  night  in  darkness  veiled  the  scene, 

When,  like  a  herd  of  frightened  deer, 
On  Lena's  heath  the  foe  convene. 

We  sat  and  heard  the  sprightly  harp, 
At  the  foot  of  Luba's  gentle  stream; 

Fingal  himself  was  next  the  foe, 

And  listened  in  the  moon's  pale  beam: 

Attentive,  leaning  on  his  shield, 
Was  seated,  woody  Morven's  king, 

His  gray  locks  floating  on  the  breeze, 
His  warlike  soul  was  on  the  wing; 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  183 

Near  him,  upon  his  bended  spear, 
My  young,  my  valiant  Oscar  stood, 

His  heart  was  warmed  to  Morven's  king, 
His  noble  deeds  had  fired  his  blood. 

"Son  of  my  son!"  began  the  king, 

"Beloved  Oscar,  pride  of  youth, 
I  saw  the  shining  of  thy  sword, 

And  gloried  in  thy  fame  and  truth; 

"Pursue  the  path  our  fathers  trod, 

Be  thou  my  son  what  they  have  been! 

Trathal  a  train  of  heroes  reared; 

And  Trenrnor  lived,  the  first  of  men! 

"  They  fought  the  battle  in  their  youth, 

And  bards  have  raised  their  names  on  high, 

Courage  and  truth  their  actions  swayed, 
Their  fame  in  arms  shall  never  die! 

"Oh,  Oscar!  bend  the  strong  in  arrfi, 
But  spare  the  feeble,  helpless  hand, 

Be  thou  a  stream  of  many  tides 
Against  the  foes  of  Erin's  land; 

"But  like  the  gale  which  moves  the  grass 
To  those  who  humbly  ask  thine  aid, 

Support  the  helpless  and  the  weak, 
Protect  the  injured  and  betrayed: 

"  So  Trenmor  lived,  so  Trathal  died, 

And  such  has  Fingal  ever  been, 
The  injured  foe  my  arm  sustained, 

And  to  the  weak  it  proved  a  screen; 

"  Once,  Oscar,  I  was  young  like  thee, 

My  fame  did  Fainasolis  bring, 
That  sunbeam,  that  mild  light  of  love, 

Daughter  of  distant  Craca's  king; 


184  MAKGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Few  were  the  followers  in  my  train, 
For  I  had  just  returned  from  war, 

When  a  white  sail  and  boat  appeared, 
Tossing  upon  the  waves  afar; 

"  It  neared  the  shore,  we  saw  the  maid, 
Her  white  breast  heaving  with  her  sighs, 

The  wind  sang  through  her  dark,  loose  hair, 
And  sorrow  filled  her  downcast  eyes: 

"  'Daughter  of  beauty,'  calm  I  said, 

'What  sigh  disturbs  thy  breast  of  snow? 

Young  as  I  am,  can  I  defend 

Thy  matchless  charms  from  reckless  foe?' 

"  With  sighs,  she  said, '  to  thee  I  fly, 
Oh  generous  prince  of  mighty  men, 

To  thee  I  fly,  oh  lend  thine  aid! 
A  hapless  maiden  to  sustain; 

"  '  My  falher,  king  of  Craca's  Isle, 
Owned  me  the  sunbeam  of  his  race, 

Tall  Cromla's  hills  have  heard  my  fame — 
Slender  rny  form  and  fair  my  face; 

"  '  Sora's  proud  chief  beheld  me  fair, 
And  would  possess  these  hapless  charms; 

I  fear  his  dark  and  stormy  love, 
It  fills  my  bosom  with  alarms; 

" l  His  sword  is  as  a  beam  of  light 
Upon  the  valiant  warrior's  side, 

But  dark  and  gloomy  is  his  brow, 

And  his  fierce  soul  is  filled  with  pride; 

"  '  I  shun  him  on  the  roaring  sea, 
But  he  pursues  my  bounding  bark, 

Great  king,  protect  me  from  his  power! 
Nor  let  his  eye  my  footsteps  mark.3 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  185 

"<  Rest  thou,'  I  said, «  behind  my  shield, 
Here  rest  in  peace,  thou  beam  of  light, 

If  Fingal's  arm  is  like  his  soul, 
Your  chief  will  safety  seek  in  flight! 

" '  In  some  lone  cave  I  might  conceal 
Thy  beauties,  daughter  of  the  sea, 

The  foe,  brave  Fingal  never  flies, 
His  arm  shall  prove  a  shield  to  thee.' 

"  I  saw  the  tear  upon  her  cheek, 

I  pitied  Craca's  daughter  fair, 
When,  like  a  dreadful  wave,  I  saw 

The  stormy  Borbar's  ships  appear! 

"  His  masts  high  bending  o'er  the  sea, 
Behind  their  spreading  sheets  of  snow, 

White  roll  the  waves  on  either  side, 

And  high  the  boisterous  north  winds  blow; 

"  *  Come  thou,'  I  said, '  from  ocean's  roar, 

Thou  rider  of  the  stormy  wave, 
Partake  the  feast  within  iny  hall, 

It  is  the  home  of  strangers  brave.' 

"  With  steady  hand  the  bow  he  drew; 

The  maid  stood  trembling  at  my  side; 
Lifeless  she  sank  upon  the  earth. 

And  freely  gushed  the  crimson  tide. 

"Borbar!  unerring  was  thy  hand, 

But  helpless  was  thy  fallen  foe, 
A  noble  soul  would  scorn  to  lay 

A  weak,  defenceless  maiden  low! 

"We  fought,  nor  weak  the  strife  of  death, 
He  sank  beneath  my  vengeful  sword; 

We  laid  them  in  two  tombs  of  stone, 
The  chief  and  maid  whom  he  adored. 


186  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Such  were  the  deeds  of  Fingal's  youth, 
And  such  be  yours,  my  noble  sons, 

Never  for  conquest  raise  the  sword, 
Nor  shun  the  battle  when  it  comes; 

"Fly  swiftly,  Oscar,  Fillan  fly! 

View  Lochlin's  son  across  the  heath, 
I  hear  the  distant  sound  of  feet, 

Thy  come  to  meet  the  bloody  death: 

"Oh!  let  them  not  escape  my  sword, 
Here  Erin's  chiefs  all  bloody  lie; 

Low  on  their  dark  and  silent  beds, — 
Revenge,  revenge,  for  this  they  die!" 

The  heroes  flew,  like  two  dark  clouds 
Which  bear  along  the  forms  of  ghosts, 

When  air's  dark  children  sally  forth, 
To  fright  the  intruder  from  the  coasts. 

Firm  as  a  rock  stood  Morni's  son, 
The  young,  the  noble,  warlike  Gaul! 

Like  shining  stars  his  glittering  spear, 
His  voice  was  like  a  waterfall. 

"Hear,  son  of  battle!"  cried  the  chief, 
"Fingal,  thou  king  of  shells,  give  ear, 

Summon  your  bards  of  many  songs, 
To  soothe  our  souls,  our  spirits  cheer; 

"  Great  Fingal  sheath  thy  sword  of  death, 
And  let  thy  people  fight  thy  cause; 

We  withering  pass  without  our  fame, 
Our  king  alone,  obtains  applause; 

"  When  morning  rises  on  our  hills, 
Do  thou  the  fight  at  distance  view, 

Let  Lochlin  feel  the  sword  of  Gaul, 
That  bards  may  sing  his  prowess  too! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  187 

"  Such  was  the  custom  of  our  race, 

Such  was  thine  oivn,  thou  king  of  spears; 

Oh!  grant  my  boon,  most  noble  chief, 
When  Lochlin  on  the  plain  appears." 

"  Thou  valiant  chief,"  the  king  replied, 

"I  glory  in  thy  youthful  fame; 
Fight — but  my  spear  shall  be  at  hand 

To  aid  thee,  should'st  thou  need  its  flame; 

"Raise,  raise  the  voice,  ye  sons  of  song, 

And  lull  my  weary  soul  to  rest, 
Here  will  I  lie  amidst  the  wind, 

My  senses  are  by  sleep  oppressed. 

"  Oh,  Aggandecca!  art  thou  near 

Among  the  children  of  thy  land? 
Or,  if  thou  sittest  among  the  masts 

Of  Lochlin,  which  now  crowd  our  strand; 

"Come  to  my  dreams,  my  fair  one,  come; 

Show  me  thy  pale  and  lovely  face, 
Oh!  let  me  view  thy  youthful  Ibrm, 

So  full  of  beauty,  full  of  grace!" 

Many  a  voice,  and  many  a  harp, 
Arose  with  sweet  and  tuneful  sound; 

They  sung  of  Fingal's  noble  race, 
Loud  through  the  air  the  notes  resound; 

And,  as  the  song  was  borne  along, 
Upon  the  breeze  came  Ossian's  name, 

For  with  the  spear  I  often  fought, 
And  strove  to  earn  a  deathless  fame; 

Now,  blind  and  tearful,  and  forlorn, 

Silent  I  walk  with  little  men; 
Fingal,  thy  great  and  warlike  race, 

These  eyes  will  ne'er  behold  again! 


188  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  wild  roes  feed  on  thy  green  tomb, 
Thou  woody  Morven's  mighty  king; 

Blest  be  thy  soul,  thou  chief  of  swords, 
Thy  fame  shall  throughout  Erin  ring! 


ARGUMENT  TO  BOOK  IV. 


The  action  of  the  poem  being  suspended  by  night,  Ossian  takes 
that  opportunity  to  relate  his  own  actions  at  the  Lake  of  Lego, 
and  his  courtship  of  Evir-allin,  who  was  the  mother  of  Oscar, 
and  had  died  some  time  before  the  expedition  of  Fingal  into  Ire 
land.  Her  ghost  appears  to  him,  and  tells  him  that  Oscar,  who 
had  been  sent  at  the  beginning  of  the  night  to  observe  the  enemy, 
was  engaged  with  an  advanced  party,  and  was  almost  over 
powered.  Ossian  relieves  his  son,  and  an  alarm  is  given  to  Fin- 
gal  of  the  approach  of  Swr.ran.  The  king  rises,  calls  his  army 
together,  and  as  he  had  promised  the  preceding  night,  devolves 
the  command  on  Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni,  while  he  himself,  after 
charging  his  sons  to  behave  gallantly,  and  defend  his  people, 
retires  to  a  hill,  from  whence  he  could  have  a  view  of  the  battle. 
The  battle  joins.  The  Poet  relates  Oscar's  great  actions.  But 
when  Oscar,  in  conjunction  with  his  father,  conquered  in  one 
wing,  Gaul,  who  was  attacked  by  Swaran  in  person,  was  on  the 
point  of  retreating  in  the  other.  Fingal  sends  Ullin  his  bard,  to 
encourage  him  with  a  war  song,  but  notwithstanding,  Swaran 
prevails,  and  Gaul  and  his  army  are  obliged  to  give  way.  Fin 
gal  descending  from  the  hill,  rallies  them  again;  Swaran  de 
sists  from  the  pursuit,  possesses  himself  of  a  rising  ground, 
restores  the  ranks,  and  awaits  the  approach  of  Fingal.  The 
king  having  encouraged  his  men,  gives  the  necessary  orders, 
and  renews  the  battle.  Cuthullin,  who  with  his  friend  Connal 
and  Carril  his  bard  had  retired  to  the  cave  of  Tura,  hearing  the 
noise,  came  to  the  brow  of  the  hill  which  overlooked  the  field  of 
battle,  where  he  saw  Fingal  engaged  with  the  enemy;  he  being 
hindered  by  Connal  from  joining  Fingal,  who  is  himself  upon 
the  point  of  obtaining  complete  victory,  sends  Carril  to  congra 
tulate  that  hero  on  his  success. 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  189 


BOOK    IV. 


WHO  comes  with  songs  from  yonder  hill, 
Like  the  bright  rainbow  on  the  heath? 

It  is  the  maid  of  the  voice  of  love, 

The  white-armed  daughter  of  our  chief. 

Oft  hast  thou  listened  to  my  song, 
And  oft  the  tear  of  beauty  shed, 

Dost  thou  advance  to  view  the  war, 
Or  hear  the  fame  of  Oscar  spread? 

My  age  is  darkened  with  my  grief, 
Oh,  when  shall  Ossian  cease  to  mourn? 

My  years  have  been  in  battle  spent, 
Amid  the  roaring  of  the  storm; 

I  was  not  always  dark  and  blind, 
Thou  daughter  of  the  hand  of  snow, 

When  1  was  Evir-allin's  love, 

My  step  was  like  the  bounding  roe! 

The  maid  was  noble  Branno's  pride, 
She  with  the  dark-brown  flowing  hair, 

Her  love,  a  thousand  heroes  sought, 
But  she  refused  their  love  to  share; 

For,  graceful  in  her  partial  eyes 
Was  Ossian,  noble  Fingal's  son, 

For  many  were  my  deeds  of  arms, 
And  many  battles  I  had  won; 


190  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

I  went  to  make  my  suit  of  love, 
Twelve  of  my  warriors  in  my  train; 

The  sons  of  stormy  Morven  they — 
To  Branno's  friendly  halls  we  came: 

"  From  whence,"  he  cried,  "  these  arms  of  steel? 

My  daughter  is  not  easy  won; 
Many  have  sought  the  dark-haired  maid, 

But  blest  be  thou,  oh  Fingal's  son! 

"  Did  I  possess  twelve  daughters  fair, 
Thine  were  the  choice  thou  son  of  fame, 

Happy  the  maid  who  on  thee  waits, 
For  blessed  is  brave  Ossian's  name!" 

He  led  us  to  the  stately  hall, 

Where  sat  the  tender  blooming  maid; 

Joy  kindled  in  our  manly  breasts, 
While  we  our  humble  homage  paid; 

Above  us,  on  the  hill  appeared, 

The  stately  Cormac,  famed  in  arms, 

Eight  were  the  heroes  of  the  chief; 
We  fought  for  Evir-allm's  charms; 

Three  times  I  broke  on  Cormac's  shield — 

Three  times  his  spear  he  broke, 
Alas,  unhappy  youth  of  love, 

He  fell  beneath  my  stroke! 

Who  would  have  told  me,  lovely  maid, 

When  thus  I  fought  for  thee, 
That  blind,  forsaken  and  forgot, 

Thy  Ossian  now  should  be? 

The  sound  of  music  died  away, 

On  Lena's  gloomy  heath; 
The  surly  blast  blew  strong  and  loud, 

'Twas  like  the  voice  of  death! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  191 

My  thoughts  were  on  my  youthful  love, 
When  lo!  she  came  before  my  sight, 

Her  blue  eyes  rolling  in  their  tears, 
She  stood  upon  the  cloud  of  night; 

She  feebly  raised  her  gentle  voice, 
"  Rise,  Ossian,  rise,  oh!  haste,  begone! 

Save  noble  Oscar,  prince  of  men, 

He  fights  with  Stamo's  wrathful  son." 

She  sank  again  into  her  cloud — 

I  covered  me  with  shining  steel, 
My  spear  my  hasty  step  supports, 

My  armour  rang  with  dreadful  peal; 

I  hummed,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 
The  songs  of  days  of  other  years — 

Lochlin,  like  distant  thunder  heard, 
And  fled,  enfeebled  by  their  fears; 

Oscar  pursued  them  o'er  the  heath, 
"  My  son,"  I  called,  "  my  son  return! 

Pursue  no  more  o'er  Lena's  heath, 

The  fate  which  Ossian's  soul  would  mourn." 

"  My  father,  why  arrest  my  hand, 
Till  death  had  covered  over  the  plain? 

For  dark  and  dreadful  by  the  stream, 
Now  lie  the  bodies  of  the  slain! 

"  Myself  and  Fillan  were  alone — 

The  foe  have  marked  our  deeds  this  night, 

A  few  have  fallen  beneath  our  swords, 
The  rest  advance  in  all  their  might; 

"  As  the  night  wind  the  ocean  heaves, 

Over  the  white  and  sandy  shore, 
So  dark  advance  proud  Lochlin's  host, 

O'er  Lena's  heath  they  loudly  roar; 


192  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  The  ghosts  of  night  shriek  from  afar, 
Bright  meteors  shoot  athwart  the  sky! 

They  come!  the  messengers  of  death, 
We'll  boldly  fight,  but  scorn  to  fly; 

"Let  me  awake  the  sleeping  king! 

He  smiles  when  danger  stalks  around, 
His  brow  is  like  the  beaming  star, 

When  clouds  and  storms  the  skies  surround." 

Fingal  had  started  from  a  dream, 

And  leaned  on  mighty  Trenmor's  shield, 

The  hero  in  his  dream  was  blest, 
There  Aggandecca  stood  revealed; 

From  ocean's  winding  way  she  came, 
And  slowly  moved  o'er  Lena's  heath, 

Dark  were  her  tears,  and  pale  her  face, 
Alas!  it  bore  the  stamp  of  death! 

Her  robe  was  as  the  clouds  of  heaven! 

And  oft  she  waved  her  shadowy  hand 
O'er  Fingal's  form,  then  turned  her  eyes 

In  silence  back  toward  Lochlin's  land. 

"Why  weeps  fair  Aggandecca  thus?" 
Said  Fingal  wilh  a  deep  drawn  sigh, 

"  My  love,  ah!  why  so  pale  that  face? 
Thou  lonely  wanderer  of  the  sky:" 

She  vanished  on  the  passing  breeze, 
She  left  him  in  the  midst  of  night; 

Her  people's  helpless  sons  she  mourned, 
Who  were  to  fall  by  Fingal's  might; 

The  hero  started  from  his  rest, 

Still  he  beheld  her  in  his  soul  — 
At  Oscar's  fast  approaching  step, 

He  strove  his  feelings  to  control: 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  193 

The  gray  shield  of  the  youth  he  saw 
As  the  faint  beams  of  morning  rose, — 

"  How  fares  the  war?  does  Lochiin  fly? 
Oh,  haste  to  tell  me  of  our  foes! 

"Wait  they  the  battle  of  our  steel — 
Or,  do  they  fly  through  ocean's  wave? 

I  hear  their  voices  on  the  breeze, 
And  we  must  haste  the  fight  to  brave; — 

"  Fly  over  Lena's  heath,  my  son, 

And  wake  our  sleeping  friends, 
We  must  prepare  the  foe  to  meet, 

Who  on  our  plains  descends." 

Thrice,  Fingal  raised  his  awful  voice: 
The  affrighted  deer  ran  o'er  the  plain; 

The  firm  rocks  trembled  at  their  base, 
As  on  the  thundering  echo  came! 

'Twas  like  the  noise  of  many  streams 
That  burst  and  roar  the  woods  among, 

'Twas  like  the  gathering  tempest-clouds 
Borne  by  the  stormy  gale  along: 

"  Come  to  the  battle,"  said  the  king, 
"Children  of  Selma's  echoing  Hall, 

Come  to  the  death  of  thousand  foes, 
Fingal  will  stand  and  view  their  fall; — 

"  My  sword  shall  wave  on  yonder  hill, 
Your  safeguard  in  this  mortal  fray! 

I  trust  its  aid  you  will  not  need 
While  Morni's  hero  leads  the  way; — 

"  Great  Gaul,  the  chief  of  mighty  men, 

Shall  lead  the  sons  of  battle  on; 
His  powerful  arm  shall  crush  the  foe, 

And  raise  his  name  in  future  song; — 
13 


194  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Descend!  ye  ghosts  of  heroes  dead, 

Ye  riders  of  the  stormy  cloud! 
Receive  my  falling  men  with  joy, 

And  let  your  mist  their  forms  enshroud! 

"  May  they  be  wafted  by  the  blast, 
Over  my  dark-blue  stormy  seas! 

Visit  me  in  my  silent  dreams, 

Delight  my  soul  in  every  breeze! — 

"  Fillan,  and  Ryno,  fight  like  men! 

And,  Oscar  of  the  dark-brown  hair, 
Advance  with  firmness  to  the  fight, 

The  son  of  Morni's  fame  to  share; — 

"  Let  his  example  be  your  guide, 
Behold  the  deeds  his  hands  perform, 

Your  father's  faithful  friends  protect; 
Succour  the  helpless  'mid  the  storm. — 

"  Though  you  should  fall  on  Erin's  fields, 
My  children! — we  again  shall  meet, 

Our  pale,  cold  ghosts  shall  soon  unite, 
And,  in  yon  skies,  hold  converse  sweet." 

Now  like  a  dark  and  stormy  cloud, 

With  heaven's  red  lightning  edged  around, 

Flying  before  the  morning  beam, 

The  King  of  Selma  left  the  ground; — 

Terribly  light  his  armour  shone, 
Two  spears  are  in  his  aged  hand; 

His  gray  hair  floats  upon  the  wind, 
And  oft  he  turns  to  view  the  band; 

Three  bards  attend  the  son  of  fame, 
His  mandates  to  the  chiefs  to  bear, 

High  on  tall  Cromla's  side  he  sat 
And  raised  his  long  sword  in  the  airj 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  195 

And,  as  that  sword  of  lightning  waved, 

We  onward  to  the  battle  moved; 
Joy  rose  in  youthful  Oscar's  face, 

For  he  the  scenes  of  battle  loved; 

His  cheek  is  flushed,  his  eye  upraised, 

His  sword  is  as  a  beam  of  fire, 
His  valiant  heart  was  beating  high 

When  thus  the  youth  addressed  his  sire: 

"  Oh!  Ossian,  ruler  of  the  fight, 

My  father,  hear  thy  youthful  son, 
Retire  with  Morven's  mighty  chief, 

Till  I've  the  fame  of  Ossian  won; 

"If  here  I  fall  upon  this  plain, 

Remember,  sire,  yon  mourner  there, 

The  lonely  sunbeam  of  my  love, 

Toscar's  white-handed  daughter  fair! 

"  Methinks  I  see  her  from  the  rock, 
Her  soft  hair  round  her  bosom  flies, 

With  red  cheek  bending  o'er  the  stream 
She  pours  for  me  her  anxious  sighs; — 

"  Tell  her,  I  wander  on  my  hills 

A  lightly  bounding  son  of  wind; 
Tell  her,  that  on  a  cloud  I  sail, 

Searching  her  lovely  form  to  find." 

"  Raise,  Oscar,  rather  raise  my  tomb! 

I  will  not  yield  the  war  to  thee — 
The  first  and  bloodiest  in  the  strife, 

My  arm  shall  teach  the  foe  to  flee: 

"Forget  not,  oh!  my  much  loved  son, 
To  place  this  sword,  this  bow,  this  horn 

Within  that  dark  and  narrow  house 
Whose  mark  is  one  gray  stone  forlorn! 


196  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"I  leave  no  love  unto  thy  care, 

My  Eviralliu  is  no  more! 
Her  lovely  form  now  sleeps  in  death 

Upon  the  rocky  sea-beat  shore." 

Such  were  our  words,  when  Gaul's  loud  voice 
Came  growling  on  the  whistling  blast, 

His  father's  sword  he  waved  on  high, 
The  tide  of  war  was  rising  fast! 

As  waves  come  bubbling  o'er  the  deep, 
As  rocks  of  Ooze  meet  roaring  waves, 

So  Erin's  sons  met  Lochlin's  chief; 

So  foes  attacked  and  found  their  graves; — 

Man  met  with  man,  and  sleel  with  steel, 
Shields  sound,  and  warriors  bleeding  fall! 

'Twas  as  a  hundred  hammers'  clang — 
So  rose  their  swords,  'twas  carnage  all!  — 

Gaul,  like  a  whirlwind  rushed  along! 

Destruction  on  his  fiery  sword; 
Swaran  was  like  a  rushing  fire, 

As  o'er  the  bloody  plain  he  roared; — 

How  can  I  give  their  deeds  to  song — 
Oh!  how  describe  the  deadly  fight? 

My  sword  rose  high,  and  flamed  in  blood, 
But  death  nor  blood  our  souls  affright; 

Oscar,  my  best,  my  greatest  son, 
Thou  didst  rejoice  my  secret  soul! 

Thy  sword  is  flaming  o'er  the  heath, 

While  death  and  carnage  round  thee  roll! — 

They  fled  amain  across  the  plain, 

We  quick  pursued  and  slew, 
As  stones  that  bound  from  rock  to  rock, 

So  swift  our  weapons  flew; 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  197 

As  thunder  rolls  from  hill  to  hill, 
With  dismal,  hollow,  broken  peal, 

So  blow  succeeded  mortal  blow, 

And  death  to  death  from  Oscar's  steel; 

But  Swaran  closed  round  Morni's  son 
As  the  strength  of  the  roaring  tide, 

The  king  half  rose  upon  the  hill — 
His  spear  flamed  at  his  side; — 

"  Go,  Ullin,  go,  my  aged  bard!" 

Said  woody  Morven's  fearless  king, 

"Remind  the  mighty  Gaul  of  war, 
And  of  his  father's  valour  sing; 

"Music  enlivens  flagging  war, 

Let  the  loud  harp  support  the  fight;" 

With  steps  of  age  tall  Ullin  went, 
His  songs  their  drooping  souls  delight; — 

"Son  of  the  Chief  of  generous  steeds, 
High  bounding  king  of  bloody  spears, 

Strong  arm  in  every  dangerous  toil, 
The  son  of  Morni  never  fears!  — 

"  Chief  of  the  pointed  arms  of  death, 
Cut  down  the  proud  and  haughty  foe, 

Let  no  white  sail  bound  round  our  shores 
When  stormy  gales  from  ocean  blow; 

"With  thunder  let  thine  arm  be  clothed, 
Thine  eyes  like  beams  of  liquid  fire, 

Be  thy  heart  form'd  of  solid  rock, 
Remember,  Gaul,  thy  noble  sire! 

"Whirl  round  thy  sword  like  meteor  bright! 

Lift  thy  broad  shield,  a  flame  of  death; 
Cut  down,  destroy  the  haughty  foe, 

Oh!  leave  not  one  on  Lena's  heath." 


198  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  hero's  bounding  heart  beat  high: — 
Fierce  Swaran  with  the  battle  came, 

In  twain  he  cleft  the  shield  of  Gaul, 
The  sons  of  Selma  fled  the  plain; 

Fingal  at  once  arose  in  arms, 

And  thrice  he  raised  his  dreadful  voice, 
High  Cromla  echoed  back  the  sound, 

His  chieftains  trembled  at  the  noise! — 

They  bent  their  faces  to  the  earth, 
Ashamed  their  aged  king  to  meet, 

With  stately,  measured  steps  he  came, 
Resolved  proud  Lochlin  to  defeat; — 

Swaran  beheld  his  warlike  form 
And  halted  midway  in  his  course, — 

Silent  he  leaned  upon  his  spear, 
His  fiery  eye  had  spent  its  force; 

Stately  and  tall,  the  hero  stands 

Like  the  strong  oak  near  Lubar's  stream, 
Whose  branches  long  had  blasted  been 

In  the  fierce  lightning's  fiery  beam: 

Brave  Fingal,  like  a  light  from  heaven, 
Shone  in  his  mournful  people's  eyes, 

His  heroes  gather  round  his  shield 
And  loud  resound  the  battle  cries: 

"  Raise,  warriors,  raise  my  standards  high, 
Let  them  spread  wide  on  Lena's  wind, — 

Like  flames  upon  a  hundred  hills 
To  animate  our  sinking  mind; — 

"Oh!  Oscar  of  the  future  wars, 
Ye  sons  of  Morven  all  attend! 

Ossian,  thou  king  of  many  songs, 
Be  near  my  arm,  prompt  to  defend.'* 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  199 

We  reared  the  standard  of  our  king, 
The  sun-beam  floated  in  the  breeze, 

Each  hero's  heart  with  joy  was  filled, 
As  high  it  waved  among  the  treees: — 

" Behold,"  said  Fingal,  "view  those  troops! 

Confusion  reigns  among  the  foe, 
They  stand  like  broken  clouds  of  Heaven, 

Their  spears  like  passing  meteors  glow; 

"Let  every  chieftain  in  our  band 

Select  a  troop  of  those  dark  men, 
Nor  let  a  son  of  echoing  groves 

E'er  bound  on  Erin's  waves  again." 

"Be  mine,"  said  Gaul,  "the  seven  bold  ships 
That  came  from  Lena's  stormy  lake; 

On  Inistore's  dark  frowning  king 

Let  Oscar  his  fierce  vengeance  slake." 

"  Blest,  and  victorious  be  my  chiefs," 
Said  Fingal  while  his  gray  locks  shook, 

"  Swaran,  thou  king  of  roaring  waves, 
Fingal  himself  thy  sword  shall  brook!" 

Now  like  a  hundred  different  winds, 
That  pour  thro'  many  different  vales, 

The  sons  of  Selma  sally  forth 
And  each  his  chosen  troop  assails; 

Oh,  how  shall  I  relate  the  scene 

We  witnessed  ere  the  strife  was  closed, 

Or  tell  how  many,  pale  in  death, 
Upon  the  bloody  heath  reposed? 

Oh,  powerful  were  our  hands,  sweet  maid; 

The  gloomy  ranks  of  Lochlin  fell, 
Bright  victory  o'er  our  standard  waved, 

Each  chief  performed  his  promise  well; 


200  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Oh!  thou  hast  seen  the  setting  sun 

Slowly  retire  behind  his  cloud, 
Night  gathering  round  the  mountain's  brow 

While  autumn's  blast  roared  long  and  loud:- 

The  thunder  rolled  in  heavy  peals, 

The  rain  at  length  poured  down  in  streams, 

The  lightning  glanced  upon  the  rocks, 
And  spirits  rode  on  fiery  beams! 

Such  was  the  battle's  dreadful  din, 
Thou  maiden  of  the  arms  of  snow, 

But  why,  my  daughter,  why  that  tear? 
Tears  from  the  maids  of  Lochlin  flow. 

The  people  of  their  country  fell, 

My  heroes' swords  stained  with  their  blood, - 
Oh,  weep  for  me,  forlorn  and  blind, — 

Vanished  is  every  earthly  good! 

Give  me  thy  tears,  thou  tender  heart, 
My  dear  companions  mouldering  lie, — 

Feeble  and  helpless  here  I  sit, 
Oh!  maiden,  give  to  me  thy  sigh! 

'Twas  then,  by  Fingal's  mighty  hand, 

A  valiant  son  of  Lochlin  fell — 
He  raised  his  dying  eyes  to  heaven, 

The  king  of  Morven  knew  him  well: 

u  And  hast  thou  fall'n,  mine  ancient  friend? 

Has  Fingal's  hand  then  dealt  the  blow? 
And  thou  \vasf  Aggandecca's  friend, 

Thine  eyes  have  wept  the  maiden  low; 

"Oh!  I  am  grieved  that  by  my  hand 

Thou  should'st  have  found  a  bloody  bed. 

For  thou  hast  been  the  mortal  foe, 

Of  those  who  laid  her  with  the  dead; — 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  201 

"  Raise,  Ulliri,  raise  great  Mathon's  grave! 

Name  him  in  Aggandecca's  song; 
Oh!  she  was  dear  to  Fingal's  heart, 

His  love  was  faithful,  deep  and  strong! " 

From  Cromla's  cave  Cnthullin  heard 
The  din  of  war,  the  sound  of  spears, 

He  called  to  Connal,  brave  in  fight, 
And  Carril,  bard  of  other  years: 

The  gray-haired  heroes  heard  his  voice, 

And  shook  their  pointed  spears, 
They  saw  the  tide  of  battle  roll: — 

Cuthullin  dried  his  tears; 

His  soul  was  kindled  at  the  sight, 

Dark  was  his  frowning  brow, 
His  hand  is  on  his  father's  sword, 

His  red  eye  on  the  foe! 

Thrice  he  essayed  to  join  the  war, 

And  Connal  stayed  him  thrice; 
"Oh,  Chieftain  of  the  Isle  of  Mist! 

Take  Connal's  sage  advice; — 

"  Great  Fingal  now  subdues  the  foe, 

Seek  not  to  rob  him  of  his  fame, 
For  he  is  like  the  stormy  tide, 

His  valour  Lochlin  cannot  tame!" 

"  Go,  Carril,  go,"  replied  the  chief, 
"And  greet  the  mighty  king  of  spears; 

Say,  that  should  he  require  my  aid 
'Tis  known  Cuthullin  never  fears; — 

"When  he  has  conquered  Lochlin's  chief 

And  all  his  army  falls  away, 
When  the  fierce  battle  scene  is  past 

Cuthullin  will  his  homage  pay; — 


MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"Sweet  in  his  ear  shall  be  my  voice, 

I'll  praise  the  king  of  Selma  high! 
Give  him  great  Cathbat's  sword  of  might, 

His  fame  shall  ring  through  earth  and  sky! 

"But  I  am  humbled  to  the  dust, 
My  father's  arms  I  dare  not  raise; 

Come,  all  ye  wandering  ghosts  of  air, 
And  soothe  me  with  your  mournful  lays! 

"Be  near  Cuthullin's  wandering  steps, 

Talk  to  him  in  his  lonely  cave; 
No  more  shall  my  renown  arise 

'Midst  warriors  in  the  battle  brave! 

"  I  was  a  beam  that  brightly  shone, 
A  transient  mist,  a  morning  cloud; 

My  light  is  quenched,  my  spirit  broke, 

Henceforth  these  walls  my  form  shall  shroud; 

"Oh!  Connal,  talk  no  more  of  arms! 

Departed  is  my  warlike  fame, 
My  sighs  shall  rise  on  Cromla's  wind 

When  quite  forgotten  is  my  name; 

"But  thou,  Bragela!  lonely  maid! 

Thy  hapless  hero's  fate  shall  weep, 
Vanquish'd,  I'll  ne'er  return  to  thee, 

In  Tura's  cave  my  form  shall  sleep!" 


ARGUMENT  TO  BOOK  V. 

Cuthullin  and  Connal  still  remain  on  the  hill.  Fingal  and 
Swaran  meet:  the  combat  is  described.  Swaran  is  overcome, 
bound,  and  delivered  over  as  a  prisoner  to  the  care  of  Ossian 
and  Gaul  the  son  of  Morni.  Fingal,  his  younger  sons,  and  Oscar, 
still  pursue  the  enemy.  The  episode  of  Orla,  a  Chief  of  Loch- 
lin  who  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  battle,  is  introduced. 
Fingal,  touched  with  the  death  of  Orla,  orders  the  pursuit  to  be 
discontinued,  and  calling  his  sons  together,  he  is  informed  that 
Ryno,  the  youngest  of  them,  is  slain.  He  laments  his  death: 
hears  the  story  of  Lamderg,  and  Gelchossa,  and  returns  toward 
the  place  where  he  had  left  Swaran.  Carril,  who  had  been  sent 
by  Cuthullin  to  congratulate  Fingal  on  his  victory,  comes  in 
the  mean  time  to  Ossian.  The  conversation  of  the  two  Poets 
closes  the  action  of  the  fourth  day. 


BOOK   V. 


CONNAL,  from  Cromla's  echoing  side, 
The  sad  Cuthullin  thus  addressed: 

"Oh!  son  of  Semo,  why  that  gloom? 

Thy  useless  grief  must  be  suppressed; — 

"Our  friends  are  terrible  in  war, 

And  thou,  a  hero  of  renown! 
Thy  arm  hath  spread  destruction  wide, 

Brave  men  have  quailed  beneath  thy  frown; 

"  The  fair  Bragela  oft  has  met 

Her  hero  from  the  battle  plain, 
Her  blue  eyes  wet  with  tears  of  joy 

That  he  in  triumph  came  again; 

"The  blood-stained  sword  she  fondly  viewed,— 
Red  with  the  gore  of  slaughtered  foes, 

And  pleasant  to  her  ears  the  harp, 
When  in  the  song  thy  deeds  arose; 

"Behold,  Cuthullin,  Morven's  king 

As  a  fiery  pillar  moves  along! 
Strong,  as  fair  Lubar's  rushing  stream, 

Or  wind  thro'  echoing  Cromla  borne." 

Happy  the  nation  thou  dost  rule, 
Oh  Fingal!  wise,  and  valiant  king, 

Happy  the  warriors  who  partake 
That  fame  which  future  bards  shall  sing! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  205 

But  who  is  he  so  dark  and  grand 
Comes  in  the  thunder  of  his  course? 

Who  but  proud  Starno's  haughty  son, 
Behind  him  all  his  warlike  force; 

Behold  the  battle  of  the  chiefs! 

'Tis  like  the  storm  the  sailor  braves, 
When  spirits  fierce  in  wrath  contend, 

Which  shall  possess  the  rolling  waves. 

The  mighty  clang  of  arms  is  heard, 

Dreadful  the  battle  rages  round  — 
In  twain  are  cleft  their  dark  brown  shields, 

Their  steel  flies  broken  on  the  ground; 

Each  to  his  hero's  grasp  doth  rush 

And  round  their  sinewy  arms  they  bend, 

They  turn  from  side  to  side  and  strain, 
And  wide  their  spreading  limbs  distend! — 

But  when  their  pride  of  strength  arose 

They  shook  the  high  hill  with  their  heels, — 

Rocks  tumbled  headlong  from  on  high, 
Trees  are  uprooted  in  the  fields! 

At  length  the  strength  of  Swaran  fell! 

The  king  of  groves  is  strongly  bound, 
And  Fingal  gives  a  strict  command 

That  guards  the  prisoner  shall  surround; 

For  he  is  strong  as  Lochlin's  waves — 
His  hand  was  early  taught  to  war, 

His  race  is  ancient  and  renown'd; 

Secure  him  well  with  strength  and  care! 

"  Thou  first  of  heroes,  valiant  Gaul, 
And  Ossian,  king  of  songs,  attend; 

His  grief  to  joy,  oh!  strive  to  raise, 
For  he  was  Aggandecca's  friend! 


206  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  But  fly,  ye  children  of  the  race! 

Pursue  the  foe  o'er  Lena's  plain, 
Let  no  tall  ship  hereafter  bound, 

On  Inistore's  dark  rolling  main!" 

Sudden  they  flew  across  the  heath, 
While  slowly  moves  his  stately  form, 

Like  thunder  o'er  the  sultry  plain, 
Silent  and  dark,  before  the  storm-, 

He  marched  toward  a  lonely  chief, 
His  sword  was  as  a  sunbeam  bright, 

Before  his  fiery  eyes  it  waved 

Like  streaming  meteor  of  the  night! 

Who  is  that  man  so  dark  and  sad, 
At  the  rock  of  the  roaring  stream? 

He  cannot  bound  across  its  course — 
A  noble  chief,  'twould  seem! — 

"  Youth  of  the  dark  red  flowing  hair, 
What  tidings  dost  thou  bring? 

Art  thou  a  foe  to  Fingal's  race?" 
Said  woody  Morven's  king — 

"A  son  of  Lochlin  I,"  he  cried, 
"  And  powerful  is  my  arm  in  fight; 

My  spouse  sits  weeping  at  our  home, 
But  Orla  ne'er  shall  bless  her  sight." 

Said  Fingal, "  dost  thou  fight,  or  yield 

To  this,  my  powerful  arm! 
Foes  do  not  conquer  where  /stand, 

And  thee  I  would  not  harm; — 

"Be  thou  my  friend,  and  follow  me — 
Pursue  my  fleet  and  bounding  deer, 

Partake  my  goodly  feast  of  shells, 

Be  thou  my  friend,  and  share  my  cheer." 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  £07 

"  No,"  said  the  hero,  "  Fingal,  no! 

My  strength  is  with  the  weak  in  arras, 
My  sword  has  ever  been  unmatched, 

For  valour's  fire  my  bosom  warms; 

"  So  let  the  king  of  Morven  yield." 

"  Orla,  I  never  yield  to  man! 
Then  draw  thy  sword  if  thou  wilt  fight, 

And  choose  thy  foe  amongst  my  clan." 

"  And  does  the  king  refuse  to  fight?" 
Said  Orla  of  the  dark-brown  shield;' 

"  Orla  is  match  for  Fingal's  sword, — 
I  fight  him  only  in  the  field! 

"  But,  king  of  Morven,  should  I  fall, 
For  every  chief  must  one  day  die, 

Oh!  raise  my  tomb  upon  this  plain — 
And,  generous  Fingal,  raise  it  high! 

"And  o'er  the  dark-blue  rolling  wave, 
To  her  he  loves  send  Orla's  sword, 

That  she  may  tell  her  youthful  son, 
Whose  soul  shall  kindle  at  the  word." 

"  Son  of  the  mournful  tender  tale, 
Why  thus  awaken  Fingal's  grief? 

Death  is  the  certain  doom  of  man, 
Whose  longest  term  of  life  is  brief; — 

"  The  hero  in  the  battle  falls, 

While  widows  mourn  their  lonely  fate, — 
Children  and  youths,  with  pride  and  love, 

Their  fathers'  valiant  deeds  relate: 

"  The  arms  hang  useless  in  the  hall 

Which  gleam'd  like  lightning  on  the  foe, 

No  more  the  warrior  through  his  ranks 
Makes  seas  of  blood  around  him  flow: 


208  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Fair  Orla,  thy  tall  tomb  shall  rise, 
And  tower  above  each  common  tomb: 

Upon  thy  sword  thy  spouse  shall  weep, 
Thy  son  lament  thy  hapless  doom." 

On  Lena's  bloody  heath  they  fought, 

Feeble  the  arm  of  Lota's  son, 
The  sword  of  Fingal  cleft  his  shield, 

It  fell,  and  glittered  as  the  moon! 

"Oh!  generous  Fingal!"  said  the  chief, 

"Haste,  end  thy  work,  and  pierce  my  breast! 

My  weary  spirit  longs  to  fly 

And  find  a  lasting  place  of  rest; — 

"  Bloody  and  wounded,  from  the  fight 
I  dragg'd  my  feeble,  fainting  frame; 

Deserted  by  my  dearest  friends, 
All  weak  and  lonely,  Orla  came! 

"Oh!  lift  once  more  thy  friendly  steel 

And  lay  me  in  my  silent  tomb, 
The  tale  will  grieve  my  widow'd  love, 

To  whom  my  ghost  will  often  come; 

"  How  will  her  heart  sustain  the  blow 
When  she  receives  the  mournful  tale? 

My  son  will  weep  his  father's  fate, 
And  both  will  long  my  loss  bewail." 

"Orla,"  the  noble  Fingal  cried, 

"  I  cannot  slay  so  brave  a  foe — 
On  Lota's  bank  there  meet  thy  love, 

From  Selma's  power  in  safety  go: 

"  In  peace,  go  greet  thy  gray-hair'd  sire! 

Perhaps  his  eyes  are  blind  with  age  — 
And  let  the  music  of  thy  voice 

The  anguish  of  his  heart  assuage." 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  209 

"  But  he  will  never  hear  that  voice," 
Feebly  the  fainting  chief  replied  — 

"Beneath  my  belt  are  mortal  wounds, 
Here  on  these  plains  my  woes  subside!" 

From  'neath  his  belt  the  dark  blood  pours, 

And  pale  upon  the  heath  lie  falls, 
And  Fingal,  bending  o'er  his  corse, 

In  tears  his  youthful  heroes  calls: 

"Oscar,  and  Fillan,  hear  my  words! 

Come,  raise  the  tornb  of  Orla  high, 
Here  let  the  dark  hair'd  hero  rest — 

Far  from  his  spouse  with  tearful  eye; 

"Here  in  his  narrow  house  he  sleeps 

Far  from  his  love;  in  Lota's  Hall 
His  faithful  dogs  are  howling  round, 

Waiting  to  hear  their  master's  call; 

"Oh!  fallen  is  the  valiant  arm, 

The  mighty  son  of  war  is  low! 
Exalt  the  voice,  and  blow  the  horn, 

In  music  let  our  sorrow  flow! 

"To  Swaran  let  us  all  return, 

And  send  the  night  away  in  song, — 

But  Ryno,  that  young  son  of  fame, 
To  greet  me  why  delay  so  long?" 

"Ryno,"  said  Ullin,  first  of  bards, 
"  Rests  with  his  fathers'  awful  forms, 

The  youth  is  low,  the  youth  is  pale, 
On  Lena's  heath  exposed  to  storms." 

"Oh!  thou  wert  swiftest  in  the  race!" 

Exclaimed  the  mourning  king, 
"  The  first  to  bend  the  stately  bow: — 

Thy  fame  our  bards  shall  sing; 

14 


210  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Why,  Ryno,  art  thou  gone  so  soon? 

But  softly  be  thine  early  sleep, 
Soon  shall  my  soul  unite  with  thine, 

Where  heroes  have  no  cause  to  weep; 

"  Oh!  Ryno,  thou  art  low  indeed, 

Thou  hast  not  yet  received  thy  fame! 

Come,  Ullin,  strike  the  tuneful  harp, 
And  sound  aloud  his  youthful  name; 

"Farewell!  thou  first  in  every  field, 
No  more  shall  I  direct  thy  dart — 

Oh!  thou  wert  fair,  my  noble  son, 
And  dear  unto  this  aged  heart." 

The  big  tears  flowed  in  copious  streams 
Adown  the  manly  hero's  cheek, 

His  heaving  bosom  told  the  grief, 

His  mourning  tongue  refused  to  speak: — 

"  Whose  fame  is  in  yon  dark  green  tomb?" 
Inquired  the  aged,  sorrowing  chief; 

"  Four  mossy  stones  the  story  tells 
Of  some  brave  hero's  passage  brief: 

"They  mark  the  narrow  house  of  death, 
Near  it  let  youthful  Ryno  rest! 

Let  him  be  neighbour  to  the  brave, 
No  more  by  bloody  war  oppress'd. 

"Here  lies  some  fallen  chief  of  fame, 
To  fly  with  him  let  Ryno  come, — • 

Oh!  Ullin,  raise  the  songs  of  old, 
Awake  their  memory  in  the  tomb; 

"  If  in  the  field  he  never  fled, 

My  son  reposes  by  his  side, 
Far  from  his  own,  his  native  woods, 

We  make  his  tomb,  who  was  their  pride." 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  2H 

Then  spoke  the  bard  of  Selma's  Halls, 
"Here  doth  a  valiant  warrior  rest! 

Lamderg  is  silent  'neath  this  turf, 
His  fame  by  distant  lands  confessed; 

"  Oh!  who,  soft  smiling  from  her  cloud, 
Shows  me  her  pale  and  beauteous  face? 

And  why,  loved  daughter,  tell  me  why 
Sleep'st  thou  with  foes  in  this  lone  place? 

"  Thousands  have  sought  thy  youthful  love, 
But  Lamderg  was  thy  chosen  chief, 

He  flew  to  Tura's  mossy  towers, 
And  thus  he  put  his  questions  brief; 

"  <  Where  is  Gelchossa,  where's  my  love? 

Noble  Tuathal's  daughter  fair — 
I  left  her  in  this  stately  hall, 

She  said  '  I'll  wait  thy  coming,  here;' 

" '  But  why  not  haste  to  meet  me,  love? 

Thy  Lamderg  has  returned  to  stay — 
Come,  gently  soothe  my  weary  soul, 

For  1  am  sick  of  battle  fray; 

"'  How  silent  is  my  Hall  of  joy! 

I  see  not  fair  Gelchossa's  form — 
My  bard  is  silent  at  my  gates, 

Bran  gives  me  not  his  welcome  warm; 

"  '  Where  is  Gelchossa,  where's  my  love? 

She,  who  on  Lamderg  sweetly  smiled;' 
'  Hero,'  replied  a  youthful  chief, 

1  She  hunts  the  deer,  in  forest  wild!' 

"  '  Ferchios!'  he  in  amazement  cried, 
'  No  sound  is  in  the  silent  wood — 

No  panting  dog  pursues  the  deer, 
In  haste  to  draw  his  vital  blood; 


21£  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  <  Gelchossa  moves  not  on  those  hills, 
I  cannot  see  her  beauteous  form — 

My  love  is  fairer  than  the  moon, 
When  she  appears  before  a  storm! 

«  <  Go,  Ferchios,  go,  to  Allad  speed! 

And  do  not  my  impatience  mock, 
He  may  of  bright  Gelchossa  know, 

The  gray-haired  sire  of  yonder  rock.' 

"The  son  of  Aidon  went,  in  haste, 
And  communed  with  the  ear  of  age — 

'  Oh!  thou  who  tremblest  here  alone, 
Oh  say!  what  scenes  thine  eyes  engage?' 

« '  I  saw,'  replied  the  aged  man, 
'  Ullin,  the  son  of  Cairbar,  pass, 

He  came  in  darkness  and  alone, 
His  voice  was  like  the  surly  blast; 

«<He  entered  Tura's  stately  Hall  — 
'  Lamderg,'  he  said, '  thy  powerful  arm 

Must  crush  strong  Ullin  to  the  earth 
Or  yield  to  him  life's  sweetest  charm. 

"'Ullin,'  replied  the  maiden  mild, 

'  My  Hero  is  not  here  — 
He  fights  Ulfadda  in  the  vale! 

A  stranger  he  to  fear.' 

"'  Oh,  thou  art  fair,'  he  grimly  cried, 
'  I'll  carry  thee  to  Cairbar's  Halls, — 

Three  days  on  Cromla  I  will  wait 
Lamderg's  return  to  Tura's  walls.' 

"<  Allad,'  replied  the  youthful  chief. 

'Peace  to  thy  dreams  within  the  cave! 
Haste,  Ferchios,  blow  my  sounding  horn 

And  let  the  breeze  my  banner  wave!' 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  213 

"  Now  Lamderg,  like  a  roaring  stream 

Ascended  Tura's  rugged  hill, 
He  hummed- a  war-song  as  he  passed, 

Its  echoes  every  cavern  fill; 

"Like  a  dark  cloud  before  the  wind 

He  stood  upon  the  rnound, 
He  rolled  the  signal  stone  of  war, 

Grim  Ullin  heard  the  sound. 

"  He  took  his  aged  father's  spear, 

His  dark  face  lighted  by  a  smile, 
He  placed  the  sword  upon  his  side, 

His  dagger  in  his  hand  the  while; 

"  Gelchossa  saw  the  silent  chief 
Like  wreath  of  mist  ascend  the  hill, 

She  struck  her  white  and  heaving  breast, 
And  her  dark  eyes  with  sorrow  fill. 

at  Cairbaifthou  hoary  Chief  of  shells, 

On  Cromla  I  must  bend  the  bow, 
I  see  the  dark-brown  flying  hinds, 

Gelchossa  to  the  chase  must  go/ 

"  In  vain  she  hasted  up  the  hill, 

Why  should  I  the  sad  tale  relate? 
The  gloomy  heroes  fought  and  bled, 

And  instant  death  was  Ullin's  fate! 

"All  weak  and  pale  the  maid  advanced — 
'  Oh!  what,  rny  love,'  she  trembling  cried, — 

'  Lamderg.  what  means  this  gush  of  blood 
Which  streams  adown  thy  warrior  side?' 

"<Thon  fairer  than  the  drifted  snow, 

'Tis  Ullin's  blood,'  the  chief  replied, 
My  limbs  are  weary,  here  I'll  rest;' 
Then  feebly  bowed  his  head,  and  died! 


214  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

111  And  dost  thou  sleep  so  soon  on  earth? 

My  Lamderg's  is  a  bloody  bed;' 
Three  days  she  thus  bemoan'd  her  love, 

The  fourth  mourn  found  her  cold  and  dead! 

"  The  hunter  raised  this  tomb  so  tall, 

'Tis  over  a  hero's  breast, 
Thy  son,  oh  king!  should  here  repose, 

And  gentle  be  his  rest." 

"  And  here  my  valiant  son  shall  rest!" 

Fingal  in  haste  replied, 
"Their  faVne  is  pleasing  in  mine  ears, 

Oh,  place  him  by  their  side! 

"The  youthful  Orla  hither  bring, 
Lay  him  too  by  the  hero's  side; 

Equal  to  Ryno  in  the  field, 

His  valour  was  by  Fingal  tried; 

"  Daughters  of  Morven!  weep  hit  fate, 
Ye  maids  of  winding  Lota,  weep, 

For  they  have  fallen  like  towering  oaks 
When  winds  across  the  desert  sweep; 

"  Oscar,  thou  chief  of  every  youth, 

Thy  weeping  eyes  have  seen  their  fall, 

Be  thou  like  them  renown'd  on  earth, 
And  like  them,  die  at  honour's  call! 

"Their  forms  were  terrible  in  war, 
But  calm  in  peace  was  Ryno's  soul, 

He,  like  the  rainbow  of  the  storm, 
Shone  mildly,  'mid  the  thunder's  roll; 

"Rest  here!  thou  youngest  of  my  sons; 

Oh,  Ryno!  rest  on  Lena's  heath! 
Warriors  one  day  must  surely  fall, 

But  thou  hast  met  an  early  death." — 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  215 

Deep  was  thy  grief,  thou  king  of  swords, 
When  low  on  earth  thy  Ryno  lay, 

But  oh!  thy  grief  was  small  to  mine, 
Now,  thou  art  mingled  with  the  clay! 

Thy  distant  voice  no  more  I  hear 

On  Cona's  lone  and  echoing  hills, 
Forlorn  I  sit  beside  thy  tomb 

While  grief  my  aged  bosom  fills; 

My  eyes  no  more  behold  thy  form, 

That  noble  form  from  earth  has  passed, 

And  when  I  think  I  hear  thy  voice 
'Tis  but  the  roaring  of  the  blast! 

Now  with  his  warriors  Fingal  sleeps, 

That  mighty  ruler  of  the  war — 
His  ghost  is  riding  on  the  storm, 

The  warrior  hears  his  voice  afar! 

On  Lubar's  soft  and  flowering  banks 
Ossian  and  Gaul  with  Swaran  stood, 

To  please  the  king  I  touched  the  harp, 
And  strove  to  chase  his  gloomy  mood! 

He  roll'd  his  red  eye  toward  the  plain, 

And  frowning  knit  his  darkened  brow,  v 

The  hero  mourned  his  conquered  host, 
He  mourned  his  bravest  chieftains  low. 

I  raised  mine  eyes  to  Cromla's  brow, 

The  son  of  Semo  met  my  gaze! 
Slowly  and  sad  he  moved  along 

Like  a  dark  cloud  in  Luna's  rays; 

He  saw  victorious  Fingal  come, 

And  mixed  with  joy  his  heavy  grief, 

The  sun  shone  brightly  on  his  steel, 
And  stately  looked  the  mournful  chief; 


216  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

The  rnggnd  rock  which  forms  his  cave 

Is  close  beside  the  roaring  seaf, 
'Its  sides  the  foaming  ocean  laves, 
And  o'er  it  bends  one  shady  tree; 

'Tis  here  the  chief  of  Erin  sits, 
And  mourns  o'er  his  departed  fame; 

He  ponders  on  his  battles  lost, 

His  cheeks  are  wet  with  tears  of  shame! 

Bragela's  absence  now  he  mourns, 
Too  far  remote  to  cheer  his  soul; 

His  fancy  wanders  o'er  her  charms  — 
Would  she  were  near  him  to  console. 

Who  cometh  with  those  locks  of  age? 

'Tis  Carril,  son  of  tuneful  song! 
"Carril  of  other  times,  all  hail! 

Why  tarries  Scrno's  son  so  long? 

"Carril,  thy  voice  is  like  the  harp 
Which  hangs  in  Tnra's  stately  Halls, 

Thy  words  are  pleasant  as  the  shower 
When  o'er  the  sunny  field  it  falls." 

"Ossian,  thon  mighty  king  of  swords," 
Cuthullin's  aged  bard  replied, 

"  Thou  best  can  raise  the  cheerful  song, 
Thou  dost  in  peace  and  war  preside. 

"Long  have  I  known  thee,  noble  chief, 
Oft  touch'd  the  harp  within  thy  hall! 

Thy  voice  has  often  joined  with  mine 
At  lovely  Evirallin's  call! 

«  One  eve  of  Cormac's  love  she  sung, 
While  tears  stood  in  her  dark-blue  eyes, 

For  sometimes,  wafted  on  the  breeze, 
Her  strains  were  sweetly  heard  to  rise; 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  217 

«'  He  was  the  youth  who  died  to  gain 

The  beauteous  Evirallin's  love; 
Her  soul  was  melted  with  his  fate, 

For  she  was  gentle  as  the  dove! 

"  Among  a  thousand  beauteous  maids, 

Oh!  she  was  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Throughout  the  laud  not  one  was  found 

With  Branno's  daughter  to  compare." 

"Oh!  Carril,  cease,"  I  mournful  said, 
"  Her  form  is  now  to  earth  consigned, 

My  soul  is  melted  at  thy  tale, 

Bring  not  her  memory  to  my  mind;  w  • 

"  But  sit  thou  on  the  heath,  oh!  bard, 
And  let  us  hear  thy  cheerful  voice, 

'Tis  pleasant  as  the  gale  of  spring 
Which  doth  the  hunter's  ear  rejoice!" 


-  ;••!  '-iO  Hjwr.oil  /:••"• 


ARGUMENT  TO  BOOK  VI. 

Night  comes,  on.  Fingal  gives  a  feast  to  his  army  at  which 
Swaran  is  present.  The  king  commands  Ullin,  his  bard,  to 
give  the  song  of  peace;  a  custom  always  observed  at  the  end  of 
a  war.  Ullin  relates  the  actions  of  Trenmor,  great  grandfather 
of  Fingal,  in  Scandinavia,  and  his  marriage  with  Inibaca,  daugh 
ter  of  King  Lochlin,  who  was  ancestor  to  Swaran,  which  consi 
deration,  together  with  his  being  brother  to  Aggandecca,  with 
whom  Fingal  was  in  love  in  his  youth,  induced  the  king  to 
release  him,  and  to  permit  him  to  return  with  the  remains  of  the 
army  into  Lochlin,  upon  his  promise  of  never  returning  to 
Ireland  in  a  hostile  manner.  The  night  is  spent  in  settling 
Swaran's  departure,  in  songs  of  bards,  and  in  conversation,  in 
which  the  story  of  Grumal  is  introduced  by  Fingal.  Morning 
comes — Swaran  departs — Fingal  goes  on  a  hunting  party  and 
finding  Cuthullin  in  the  cave  of  Tura,  comforts  him,  and  sets 
sail  the  next  day  for  Scotland,  which  concludes  the  Poem. 


BOOK   VI. 


THE  clouds  of  night  come  rolling  down, 
And  darkness  rests  on  Cromla's  steep, 

The  stars  arise  o'er  Erin's  wave, 
Reflected  in  the  troubled  deep; 

A  rising  wind  roars  through  the  wood, 

Silent  and  dark  is  Lena's  vale, 
When  Carril's  tuneful  voice  arose, 

Borne  swiftly  on  the  passing  gale; 

He  sung  of  days  and  years  gone  by, 

On  each  loved  friend  the  minstrel  dwells, — 

Those  who  on  Lego's  banks  convened 
Arid  sent  around  the  joy  of  shells; 

Tall  Cromla  answered  to  his  voice, 

Ghosts  were  seen  bending  from  their  cloud, 

Listening  with  joy  to  notes  of  praise 
Which  from  the  harp  re-echoed  loud; 

Thou  ridest  now  on  eddying  winds, 

Oh!  Carril,  blessed  be  thy  soul! 
How  oft  in  fancy  'mid  the  night 

I  hear  thy  strains  of  music  roll; 

Oh  that  thy  spirit  could  descend 
At  midnight;  in  that  lonely  hour 

'Tis  said,  the  spirits  of  the  dead 

To  soothe  our  grief  alone  have  power; 


220  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

I  often  hear  rny  harp-strings  sound 
When  it  hangs  on  the  distant  wall, 

Its  echoes  waken  all  my  grief, 
I  mourn  each  hero's  fall! 

Now,  on  green  Mora's  shady  side 
The  chieftains  gathered  to  the  feast, 

A  thousand  oaks  are  blazing  high, 

Whose  light  their  festive  joys  increased; 

The  cheerful  strength  of  shells  goes  round, 
Joy  brightens  in  each  warrior's  soul, — 

All  but  fiery  Lochlin's  gloomy  king, 
Whose  eyes  of  pride  in  silence  roll! 

He  often  turned  toward  Lena's  heath, 
In  sad  remembrance  of  his  fall, 

While  Fiugal  rested  on  his  shield, 
His  stately  form  erect  and  tall! 

His  gray  locks  .waved  upon  the  wind, 
And  glittered  in  the  beams  of  night, 

The  king  of  Lochlin's  grief  he  saw, 
His  soul  was  mournful  at  the  sight; 

"  Raise,  Ullin,  raise  the  song  of  peace! 

And  soothe  my  troubled  soul  to  rest, 
I'm  weary  of  the  din  of  arms, 

Music  will  give  the  feast  a  zest! 

"Come,  let  a  hundred  harps  resound, 

To  cheer  the  king  of  Lochlin's  heart, 
None  ever  sad  from  Fingal  go, 
I        And  Swaran  must  with  joy  depart; 

"  Oscar,  the  lightning  of  my  sword 
Is  ever  'gainst  the  strong  in  fight; 

When  warriors  yield,  it  peaceful  lies, 
Its  unstained  blade  a  beam -of  light!" 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  221 

• 

The  mouth  of  song  then  touched  the  harp — 
"  Great  Trenrnor  lived  in  other  days, 

He  bounded  o'er  the  dark-blue  seas, 

Towards  Albion's  hills  his  course  he  lays; 

"  The  lands  of  Lochlin  and  its  groves, 
Its  high  rocks,  and  its  murmuring  sounds 

Through  the  thin  mist  attract  his  eye, 
As  o'er  the  wave  his  vessel  bounds. 

"  He  landed,  and  pursued  the  boar 

That  roar'd  through  Gormal's  shady  wood, 

Hundreds  before  its  wrath  had  fled, 

But  Trenmor's  spear  now  drinks  its  blood! 

"  Three  chiefs  beheld  the  mighty  deed, 
And  told  the  tale  to  Lochlin's  king — 

How  like  a  pillar  firm  he  stood, 

While  his  strong  arm  the  arrows  fling! 

"  The  king  of  Lochlin  spread  the  board, 
And  bade  his  friends  the  feast  prolong, 

He  feasted  in  their  windy  towers 
'Mid  shells  of  joy,  and  bards  of  song: 

"Trenmor  was  brave  in  single  fight. 

No  hero  would  with  him  compare; 
Three  days  their  songs  of  joy  went  round, 

And  Trenmor's  fame  resounded  there; 

"  Now,  when  the  fourth  gray  morn  arose, 

He  walked  along  the  silent  shore, 
His  tall' and  stately  ship  he  launched 

And  loudly  called  the  blast  to  roar! 

"  While  thus  engaged  a  youth  appeared 
Cover'd  with  arms  of  shining  steel, 

Red  was  his  cheek,  and  fair  his  hair, 
His  brow  like  snow  on  Morven's  hill. 


MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

• 

"  Mild  rolled  his  blue  and  smiling  eye 
As  he  addressed  the  king  of  swords, 

'Stay,  Trenmor,  stay,  thou  first  of  men, 
And  listen  to  my  earnest  words; — 

" '  Though  thou  hast  fought  with  valiant  men, 
Thou  hast  not  conquer'd  Lonval's  son! 

My  sword  hath  often  met  the  brave, 
And  wisdom  doth  my  arrows  shun.' 

"The  chief  replied,  <  thou  fair-haired  youth, 
With  Lonval's  son  I  will  not  fight, — 

Too  feeble  is  thy  slender  arm, 

Instant  retire,  thou  sunbeam  bright!' 

" '  I  will  retire,'  the  youth  replied, 

'But  it  must  be  with  Trenmor's  sword, 

I'll  go  exulting  in  my  fame, 

Thy  conqueror,  by  each  maid  adored: 

"  'Oh!  they  shall  sigh  with  sighs  of  love, 
And  my  long  spear  shall  be  admired, 

Thousands  shall  view  its  glittering  point, 
And  ask  how  I  such  fame  acquired!' 

"  '  Thou  never  shall  possess  my  spear,' — 
The  angry  king  of  Morven  cried, 

'  Thy  friends  shall  find  thee  on  the  shore 
And  weep  that  thou  so  early  died.' 

"  '  I  will  not  lift  the  heavy  spear/ 

The  beauteous  youth  replied, 
<  But  with  this  light  arid  feather'd  dart 

I'll  pierce  thy  manly  side; 

"  'Throw  down  that  heavy  coat  of  mail, 
From  death  thou'rt  shielded  well! 

But  first  I'll  lay  these  trappings  off,' — 
The  clattering  armour  fell! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  223 

"  The  heaving  of  her  breast  he  saw, 

•He  saw  her  blushing  face, 
He  knew  the  sister  of  the  king, 

So  full  of  youth  and  grace! 

"  The  spear  fell  from  his  trembling  hand, 
He  bent  his  red  cheek  to  the  ground, 

She  was  to  him  a  beam  of  light, 
Which  shed  its  radiance  all  around; 

"  <  Great  chief  of  Morven's  windy  wood/ 
The  maiden  said,  with  arms  of  snow, 

'  Here  let  me  rest  within  thy  ship, 
From  Corlo's  sight  1  fain  would  go; 

"  '  He  loves  in  all  the  gloom  of  pride, 

For  me  he  shakes  ten  thousand  spears, — 

Dreadful  the  thunder  of  his  love! 
It  fills  my  gentle  soul  with  fears.' 

"  <  Dear  maiden,  rest  thee  here  in  peace, 

Secure  behind  my  father's  shield, 
Although  he  shake  ten  thousand  spears, 

Your  love  to  him  I'll  never  yield!' 

"  Three  days  he  waited  on  the  shore, 
And  sent  abroad  his  sounding  horn, 

Loudly  he  called  on  Corlo's  name, 
From  setting  sun  till  early  morn! 

"  But  Corlo  came  not  to  the  fight, 

Though  Lochlin's  king  in  state  descends 

And  feasts  upon  Ihe  roaring  shore, 
Surrounded  by  his  valiant  friends; 

"  To  Trenmor's  arms  he  gave  the  maid, 
All  blushing  in  the  pride  of  youth, 

Who  bore  her  to  his  shady  woods, 
The  seat  of  valour  and  of  truth." 


224  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

Said  Fingal  to  the  moody  king, 
"Thy  blood  is  flowing  in  my  veins, 

Our  fathers  oft  in  battle  met 

To  try  their  strength  upon  our  plains. 

"  And  oft  they  feasted  in  the  hall, 
And  sent  around  the  joyful  shell; 

Oli!  let  thy  face  with  gladness  beam — 
Let  future  bards  the  story  tell, 

"  How  thou  hast  poured  thy  valour  forth 
Dread  as  the  storm  on  thine  own  sea, 

Thy  voice  has  sounded  through  our  vales, 
And  great  in  war  thy  fame  shall  be! 

"Rest  here  this  night; — to-morrow,  raise 
Thy  white  sails  to  the  flying  wind, 

Thou  brother  of  my  murder'd  love! 
That  tie,  alone,  our  souls  shall  bind! 

"Bright  as  the  beam  of  noon  she  comes 
To  soothe  my  ever  mournful  soul, 

My  anguish  for  her  early  loss 

No  battle  scene  could  e'er  control. 

"  I  spared  theq  in  proud  Starno's  Halls, — 
To  thee,  I  knew  the  maid  was  dear — 

Amid  a  host  of  slaughtered  foes 

I  spared  thee  —  and  repressed  the  tear! 

"  The  combat  which  thy  fathers  gave 
To  Trenmor,  1  will  give  to  thee, 

That  thy  renown,  when  thou  art  gone, 
E'en  as  the  setting  sun  shall  be!" 

"Oh!  king  of  Morven's  valiant  race," 
Said  the  chief  of  the  dark-brown  shields, 

"Swaran  with  thee  will  never  fight, 
Thou  pride  of  battle-fields! 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  225 

"I  saw  thee  in  my  father's  halls, 

Few  were  thy  years  beyond  my  own; 

When  shall  I,  said  my  haughty  soul, 
Lift  spear  like  noble  Comhal's  son? 

"Oh!  warrior,  we  have  fought  before 
On  shaggy  Malmor's  rugged  head; 

My  waves  conveyed  me  to  thy  hall, 

Where  feast  of  thousand  shells  was  spread; 

"  Many  of  Lochlin's  youthful  sons 
Now  silent,  press  yon  bloody  plain, 

Who  once  conveyed  those  stately  ships 
In  pride  across  the  foaming  main. 

"Oh!  Fingal,  noble  king,  take  these, — 
And  be  the  conquered  Swaran's  friend, 

And  when  thy  sons  to  Gorrnal  come 
We  will  the  feast  of  shells  attend!" 

"  No  ship,"  the  generous  monarch  said, 
"  Shall  Fingal  take,  nor  lands,  nor  hills; 

The  desert  is  enough  for  me, 

Which  with  its  deer  my  valley  fills! 

"Rise  on  thy  waves,  my  noble  friend! 

My  love  to  Swaran  ne'er  shall  cease, 
Spread  thy  white  sails  to  morning's  beam; 

Return  to  Gormal's  hills  in  peace." 

"  Blest  be  thy  soul,  thou  king  of  shells," 
Said  Swaran  of  the  dark-brown  shield, 

"  In  peace,  thou  art  the  gale  of  spring, 
In  war,  the  storm  that  wastes  the  field: 

"  Now  let  our  hands  in  friendship  join! 

And  let  thy  bards  mourn  those  who  fell, 
Let  Erin  bury  Lochlin's  sons, 

And  high-raised  tombs  their  story  tell: 

15 


226  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  That,  when  the  children  of  the  north 
Hereafter  may  behold  the  spot, 

The  hunter  'mid  his  sport  may  pause 

And  say — '  'twas  here,  our  fathers  fought!' 

"In  future  times  our  names  shall  live 
And  our  renown  shall  never  die;" — 

"  Great  Swaran,"  Fingal  mildly  said, 
"  Our  fame  like  mountain  mist  shall  fly! 

«  To-day,  we're  mighty  on  the  earth, 
But  like  a  dream  we  pass  away! 

No  sound  of  war  within  our  fields, 
Our  memories,  with  our  tombs  decay! 

"The  hunter  shall  not  know  the  place 
Where  Fingal  and  great  Swaran  fought, 

Our  names  in  song  no  more  will  rise, 
Our  strength  hath  fled,  and  we  are  nought. 

"  Oh!  Ullin,  Carril,  ancient  bards! 

Sing  to  us  heroes  that  are  gone, 
Give  us  the  tales  of  other  years 

And  send  the  night  away  in  song!" 

We  gave  the  song  of  other  days, 

A  hundred  voices  loudly  rise, 
The  face  of  Swaran  brightly  glowed 

Like  the  full  moon  in  evening  skies, 

When  clouds  have  vanish'd  from  her  face, 
And  leave  her  calm,  and  broad,  and  high, 

To  spread  her  brightness  o'er  the  Heavens 
While  travelling  through  the  midnight  sky. 

"  But,  tell  me.  Carril,"  Fingal  cried, 
«  What  of  the  noble  Semo's  son? 

Oh!  has  he  like  a  fallen  star 
To  Tura's  dreary  cavern  gone?" 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  227 

"  Cuthullin,"  thus  replied  the  bard, 
"  Now  lies  in  Tura's  gloomy  cave; 

His  hand  is  on  his  sword  of  strength, 
His  thoughts  on  battle  of  the  brave. 

"  Oh  mournful  is  the  king  of  spears! 

Unconquered  he  in  war  till  now, 
By  me  he  sends  a  hero's  sword, 

For  thou  hast  vanquished  Erin's  foe. 

'•  Oh  place  it  by  thy  warrior  side, 

It  long  has  graced  a  hero's  hand! 
But  now,  departed  is  his  fame, 

In  battle  he  no  more  shall  stand!" 

"  No,  Carril,  no,"  replied  the  king, 

"  Cuthullin's  sword  I  cannot  take, 
It  well  becomes  his  valiant  arm:  — 

That  noble  spirit  must  not  break! 

"  Though  vanquished,  he  is  noble  still, 
And  high  the  hero's  fame  shall  rise, 

And,  like  the  sun  from  'neath  the  cloud, 
Shall  brightly  beam  amid  the  skies! 

"Young  Grumal  was  a  valiant  chief, 
He  sought  the  war  on  every  coast, 

The  din  of  battle  pleased  his  ear, 

And  scenes  of  carnage  were  his  boast; 

"  On  Craca's  coast  his  warriors  poured, 
He  met  the  king  in  solemn  hour, — 

For,  within  Brumo's  circle,  he 

Consulted  the  great  stone  of  power! 

"  The  brave  in  battle  fiercely  fought 
For  Craca's  daughter,  young  and  fair, 

Her  praises  rang  throughout  the  land, 
And  heroes  paid  their  homage  there. 


228  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Gmmal  had  vowed  lo  gain  the  maid, 
Or  die  on  echoing  Craca's  plains: 

Full  long  they  strove  in  mortal  fight; 
Grumal  at  length  was  bound  in  chains! 

"  Far  from  his  friends,  far  from  his  home, 
The  horrid  circle  closed  him  round, 

Where  oft  'tis  said  the  ghosts  of  night 

Howled  round  the  stone,  and  darkly  frowned: 

"  But  after  that  he  brightly  shone, 
His  fame  was  as  the  light  of  Heaven, 

The  mighty  fell  by  his  right  arm, 

And  from  the  field  his  foes  were  driven." 

"  Come,  sound  the  harp,  ye  bards  of  old! 

Oh!  raise  the  praise  of  heroes  high, 
My  soul  would  settle  on  their  fame, 

Till  Swaran's  sadness  passes  by." 

The  bards  reclined  upon  the  heath — 

At  once  a  hundred  voices  rose! 
They  sung  the  deeds  of  other  times 

'Till  Swaran's  mournful  bosom  glows. 

When  shall  I  hear  their  songs  again? 

The  harp  is  silent  on  those  walls! 
Low  are  the  mighty!  hushed  the  bards 

Whose  voices  echoed  through  our  halls. 

Morn  trembles  on  its  eastern  beam, 
And  glimmers  on  high  Cromla's  side, 

When  loud  is  heard  the  echoing  horn 
To  summon  men,  once  Lochlin's  pride. 

The  sons  of  ocean  gather  round, 
And  sad  they  rise  upon  the  wave, 

The  blast  of  Erin  fills  their  sails, 
Which  float  aloft  like  banners  brave: 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  229 

"  Call  all  my  dogs,  ye  sons  of  chase! 

Fillan  and  Ryno,  sound  the  horn! 
My  Ryno  sleeps,  alas!  in  death, 

He  greets  no  more  the  vernal  morn! 

"  Fergus,  and  Fillan,  blow  the  horn, 

And  joyful  let  the  chase  arise, 
Let  the  deer  start  from  Crornla's  hill, 

And  let  our  echoes  reach  the  skies!" 

Shrill  the  horn  sounded  through  the  wood, 

And  a  buck  fell  at  Ryno's  tomb! 
The  father's  grief  was  all  renewed, 

He  mourned  young  Ryno's  early  doom: 

"  Behold!  how  peaceful  'neath  the  stone 
Lies  he,  who  was  the  first  in  chase! 

Thou  shall  no  more  arise,  my  son! 
Who  in  the  field  will  fill  thy  place? 

"  Thy  tomb  will  soon  be  lost  from  sight, 
The  rank  grass,  o'er  thy  breast  shall  wave. 

The  sons  of  feeble  men  shall  pass 
And  not  discern  the  warrior's  grave; 

"  Children  of  Morven,  let  us  rise! 

And  go  to  Erin's  mournful  son; — 
And  are  these  Tura's  stately  walls? 

The  seat  of  many  a  battle  won? 

"  Lonely,  and  gray,  these  towers  arise, 
And  sadness  reigns  within  the  walls! 

'Tis  here  the  hero  sits  and  weeps 
The  fame  departed  from  his  halls. 

"  Fillan,  is  that  a  stream  of  smoke? 

The  wind  of  Cromla  dims  my  eyes; 
Or  is  it  sad  Cuthullin's  form? 

The  great,  the  valiant,  and  the  wise." 


230  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

"  Father,  it  is  Cuthullin's  form, 
Gloomy  and  dark  the  hero  comes, 

Upon  his  sword  his  hand  is  placed — 
Hail!  bravest  of  green  Erin's  sons!" 

"Hail!  to  thee,  woody  Morven's  king! 

To  Morven's  valiant  sons  all  hail! 
Thy  presence  cheers  my  withered  soul 

As  the  warm  sun,  the  blossoms  pale; 

"Thou'rt  like  the  moon  on  Cromla's  hill, 
Thy  sons  like  stars  attend  thy  course, 

This  friendship  bows  my  stubborn  soul, 
And  thanks  from  my  proud  heart  must  force! 

"  It  was  not  thus  when  last  we  met, — 

Fingal,  I  then  a  victor  came; 
I  fought  the  wars  in  Morven's  land, 

And  distant  kingdoms  own'd  my  fame!" 

"  In  words,  Cuthullin  doth  abound," 
Said  Con-nan;  man  of  small  renown, 

"But  where  oh!  chieftain,  are  thy  deeds? 
Where  are  the  wonders  thou  hast  done? 

"  Why  did  we  come  o'er  ocean's  wave 

Thy  feeble,  helpless  arm  to  aid? 
At  ease  thou  liest  within  thy  cave 

While  Con-nan's  arms  the  battle  staid! 

"  Resign  to  me  those  arms  of  light, 
Yield  them,  thou  chief  of  Erin's  Isle!" 

With  scorn  Cuthullin  raised  his  eye, 
"  No  coward  hands  my  arms  defile. 

"  No  hero  ever  sought  my  sword; 

I  fled  not  to  this  gloomy  cave 
Till  Erin  failed  at  all  her  streams, 

And  low  were  all  her  chieftains  brave!" 


THE  SIX  BOOKS  OF  FINGAL.  231 

"  Con-nan,"  said  Fingal,  "cease  thy  words, 

Youth  of  the  feeble,  helpless  arm! 
Cuthnllin  is  renowned  in  war, 

His  valour  can  e'en  cowards  warm. 

"  Widely  has  spread  thy  brilliant  course, 

Thou  stormy  chief  of  Inisfail! 
Raise  now  thy  white  sails  on  the  sea 

And  tell  thy  love  thy  mournful  tale; 

"  Bragela  leans  upon  her  rock, 

Her  eyes  are  filled  with  tender  tears, 

Her  long  hair  waves  upon  the  breeze, 
Her  heaving  breast  proclaims  her  fears; 

"  She  listens  in  the  breeze  of  night 

To  hear  the  sound  of  distant  oars, 
Vainly  she  tries  thy  harp  to  hear, 

While  loud  around  the  ocean  roars!" 

"  Long  will  she  listen  there  in  vain, 

Cuthullin  never  shall  return, — 
Can  I  behold  Bragela's  face? 

And  see  that  face,  with  anguish  burn? 

"Fingal,  in  former  battles  I 

A  victor  to  Bragela  came! 
Conquered  I  never  can  return 

To  tinge  her  glowing  cheek  with  shame." 

"Hero,  thou  shall  victorious  be," 

Said  Fingal,  of  the  joyful  shell, 
"  Thy  fame,  Cuthullin,  shall  extend, 

And  future  bards  thy  deeds  shall  tell; 

"  Thou  shall  fight  many  battles,  chief! 

And  many  battles  thou  shall  win; 
Come  hither  Oscar,  spread  the  feast, 

And  let  the  joy  of  shells  begin!" 


232  MARGARET  M.  DAVIDSON. 

We  sat,  we  feasted,  and  we  sung, — 
The  soul  of  brave  Cnthullin  rose, 

His  arm  resumed  its  wonted  strength, 
His  manly  heart  forgot  its  woes. 

Carril,  and  Ullin,  raised  the  voice, 

I  sung  of  battles  of  the  spear. 
Battles  where  I  have  often  fought, 

Though  now  I  sit  in  darkness  here: 

Thus  passed  the  night  away  in  song, 
With  joy  we  hail'd  the  morning  light; 

Fingal  arose  upon  the  heath, 
And  shook  his  spear  all  shining  bright! 

"  Haste,  spread  the  sail,"  he  loudly  said, 
"  We'll  seize  the  winds  before  they  sleep;' 

We  rose  upon  the  wave  with  songs, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  foaming  deep! 


THE    END, 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


illllll  mi  iin  inn  •' 

A    000  545  980     5 


